FIFTEEN
by swifters
Summary: Two years have gone by since Danny disappeared and everyone's tried to move on with their lives… except for Steve, whose grief has taken him down a bad road. When Danny turns up far from home, severely traumatized and with his memories of his old life gone, can Steve help him recover? Bromance.
1. Lost and Found

**Small back-story to go with the posting of this... So a few weeks back Evil Cosmic Triplets and I exchanged the normal range of courteous messages after a random review on an old story. I'm not sure what the biggest co-incidence was; that the not-common (for me anyway) subject of WIPs came up, or that, as it turned out, we were both in the final throws of writing a story that sounded superficially the same. A small heart attack (on my part anyway!) and a cautious exchange of documents later we discovered that the stories do indeed have big themes in common but are also different enough to make it OK (phew!). We almost posted them together, but went for sequential posting in the end. ECT's fantastic 'A Case of Mistaken Identity', which is a piece of wonderful, twisted, touching poetry IMO, went up first. It's a hard act to follow and I've been waiting nervously in the wings!**

 **ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: IreneClaire and KomodoQueen had multiple drafts of this inflicted on them at different times and for different reasons (thank you and I'm so, so sorry). KomodoQueen is responsible for every medical accuracy going in this (the inaccuracies are all mine).**

 **And of course thank you to Evil Cosmic Triplets, the most genuinely lovely, accommodating and supportive set of evil triplets I've ever had the pleasure of cyber-communicating with. They also provided helpful advice and comments that were not evil at all.**

 **TAGS/WARNINGS; Bromance, hurt/comfort, alcoholism, dissociative state, amnesia, past torture and assault (not graphic). Copious swearing. AU (canon divergence from start of S6).**

 **DISCLAIMER: not mine.**

FIFTEEN

CHAPTER 1- LOST AND FOUND

 _One, two, three, four, five…_

Breathe.

 _Six, seven, eight, nine, ten…_

Breathe.

 _Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…_

Breathe.

He was thirsty. He couldn't think about it. He counted instead, counted the scars on his left thumb, the neat silvery lines, parallel like the rungs of a ladder. The faster he counted the more numb his mind became, the more distance he could insert between himself and reality. He had become a master at this, detaching from his body so the world around him was a distant dream, irrelevant. Time could pass void of meaning and content.

Fifteen scars. Fifteen was his talisman, his protection against pain, his only defence against _them._

He always knew when they were coming for him again because they drugged his water. Sometimes he refused to drink or eat for days, hiding from his body's demands behind his magic number. Thirst always got the better of him in the end. Eventually he would pick up the bottle of water that had been thrown unceremoniously through the slot in the metal door of his prison cell. He would stare at it, stomach in knots, before giving in. He would drink fast and voluminously so his gut ached with the shock of it. Then he would sit, back to the wall, arms round his knees, shaking. Waiting to see if it had been tainted.

If it hadn't he would let himself drift, counting quietly in his head.

If it had…if it had the room would begin to swim around him. His arms would become heavy and drop to the floor. He would quake in fear, waiting helplessly for the door to open, for _them_ to come; the men who owned him now and who hurt him when he couldn't fight back.

This had become his whole world. His memories were filled with the abuse he endured, his mind peppered with scars as liberally as his body. He could no longer remember what had come before, why he was here, what he'd done to deserve it. Whatever it was it must have been very, very bad.

Fifteen meant everything to him now. He ran his index finger along the scars as he counted, discrete as he could. If they realized how much he needed those fifteen little scars they would take his thumb.

He gasped in fear at the thought. It was almost his undoing. His concentration broke, his counting slowed. Fragments of reality hammered into his conscious mind. Voices. People moving around him, hands on his skin. They were already here!

He blanked them out, blanked _everything_ out. He counted furiously, lips moving silently as his trembling fingers touched the precious scars, eyes focused intently on the nothing within.

 _One, two, three, four, five…_

Breathe.

 _Six, seven, eight, nine, ten…_

Breathe.

 _Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…_

Then his hair stood on end. He could _hear_ the words, echoing his own internal murmuring. Someone was counting with him. Someone was trying to get into his _head,_ his last sanctuary. He squeezed his eyes shut, counted faster.

….

The echo came and went as time passed unmeasured. It hadn't tried to hurt him. He got used to it.

He began to wonder if it was simply his own mind offering him companionship in the internalized isolation provided by his self-comforting mantra. That was acceptable. If he had stopped to think about it he might have felt lonely. He had long since lost all notion of time and he couldn't remember what it was like to have a friend, if indeed he had ever had a friend.

A ghost of a feeling crossed his mind, a recollection of _trust_. He started to miss the echo when it wasn't there.

The echo seemed to be learning. It understood the importance of fifteen, of counting. It knew to speed up when _other_ things began to happen. The noises and the movements around him. It helped him blank them out. It also knew it was safe to slow down when everything was quiet. Sometimes it counted for him, low and steady, doing the work so he could rest. He would listen to it, lips still, a foreign feeling of peace in his heart.

In those quiet times the echo came with a strange sensation, the feeling of fingers that weren't his own running across those fifteen scars. His heart had pounded in fear when that had first happened, but the echo had counted rapidly for him until the initial panic had subsided. Then it became okay.

 _Trust._

A new concept yet at the same time one so achingly familiar it made him wonder what might lie inside the blank, inaccessible space in his mind where his memories must abide.

Today he lay in silence, curled on his side. He listened to the echo and felt the gentle caress on his thumb. He was relaxed, his guards down. Never making the conscious decision, he allowed his senses to expand outwards, just a touch. He realized with some measure of astonishment that nothing hurt. The floor of his cell felt different. Soft. His body was numb. He recognised the sensation of drugs, but it was different. He wasn't dizzy, or sick. He moved his right hand a fraction, testing. His body responded. Nothing bad happened.

He felt a strong urge to look at his thumb, to confirm that the echo and its touch were merely residents in his head. They couldn't be real.

His eyes cracked open.

 _They were real_.

He tensed, heart now in his mouth, as he took in the large, tattooed man perched on the chair beside him. Big, strong and dangerous. The man's lips moved as he counted. He _was_ the echo.

The man himself might have appeared threatening, but his passive demeanor did not. He was slumped forwards, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Tired and sad. Defeated. He was close enough to cause damage yet he wasn't grabbing or punching or slicing or… _anything_. He simply stroked the scarred thumb tenderly with the fingers of his left hand.

His own lips began to move again, echoing the quiet words coming from the tattooed man's mouth. Fearful in spite of his observations, he counted faster, faster than the man.

The man looked up in concern, met his frightened eyes with utter astonishment. The counting stopped. "Danny?"

TBC

 **Please let me know what you think! :)**


	2. Left Behind

**Blown away by the support, thank you so much :) A little nervous about this chapter...**

CHAPTER 2- LEFT BEHIND

 _One week earlier_

Steve McGarrett sat slouched on his wooden chair, gazing out to sea. It was nearly dark. He should go inside, get some sleep. He had another day to face tomorrow, another endless day with his fractured team. Grimacing, he raised his bottle of whiskey and placed it against his lips. He took a long, calming drink. It burned sweetly in his throat, his chest. He closed his eyes, languishing in the familiar sensation.

It had been a long weekend, his weekend with Grace and Charlie. The monthly event had become his only reason to keep going, the only reason to have to appear sane and functional. He had made promises through the years that he intended to keep and someone had to make sure those kids' memories of their father were preserved sacrosanct. He sure as fuck couldn't trust Rachel with that. Two-faced bitch. She had never been good enough for Danny, not in his eyes.

He took another drink.

There was a big, fat downside to the monthly weekend. He had to talk about Danny, think about Danny. It left him raw and shaken, every time. It always took some downtime to reconstruct his barriers.

He shook his head. Seven years ago he would never have thought the loss of one person could have this much impact on him. Even after Freddie died, he might have been a mess emotionally but his personality was essentially unchanged.

When they had lost Danny two years ago, everything had been turned upside down.

His usual coping strategy of compartmentalization had failed miserably. Turned out it was hard to lock the memory of Danny Williams away in a box when the man had left his mark on every fucking part of Steve's life. Work, home, family, friends. He had taken Danny with him to every single place on the fucking islands that meant anything to him. There was no escape, the associations were literally everywhere.

There were only two avenues of defence left to him that would allow him to stay on Oahu, and stay he had to for those fucking kids. Number one; shut himself off. That had proved easier than he ever would have imagined. The whole 'ohana' thing- he snorted at the term- his ohana could go fuck themselves as far as he was concerned. It was pretty ironic when he had started the whole thing, ever broadening their circle of trusted friends. They had all gathered together after Danny, supporting each other, trying to support him. But he didn't want it. He didn't want to 'heal'. He was too angry. With himself, for letting it happen, whatever 'it' really was. With his friends for trying to move on. With Danny.

He wouldn't even work with anyone else now. Steve used to be happy enough to partner up with any member of Five-0 if Danny was otherwise engaged- busy with his kids, knee-deep in overdue paperwork, or just whatever. Not now. Everything had changed. It felt like a betrayal if anyone sat beside him in that fucking car, the one he couldn't bear to get rid of, ever. He snorted again. He had lost the two most important figures in his life and he was left with two cars in their stead. His garage was a freaking graveyard.

So he worked alone.

And then there was number two, which had just snuck up on him, really; he drank. A lot. He hadn't seen that coming. It helped, took the edge off the pain, but he was pretty sure the team could tell. Not all the time, just once in a while. He could see it in their faces when they stood too close if he'd had a bad night. They could smell it on his breath. It didn't matter. They could think what they wanted. He still worked hard, still worked effectively.

Danny would have kicked his ass.

He took another swig.

Steve's thoughts rested unwillingly on the man himself. Danny Williams, irritating, loud and stubborn. The best friend he had ever had and the best man he had ever known. He had been a bit quiet for a while before he vanished. That hadn't seemed unduly concerning, that was just Danny. They had been busy with a case and they hadn't questioned it. Danny had always been in your face one minute, all bluster and aggressive humor, then introspective, agonising over any one of a catalogue of things the next. They all knew the Danny Williams emotional rollercoaster well and rode along with his moods ever-patiently because he was a good man, a fantastic detective and he was their friend.

Then he had disappeared. A call had come in late one night, some irrelevant murder. They knew Danny had answered his phone because dispatch had the brief conversation recorded. Nothing sounded amiss. But he hadn't made the crime scene. His GPS showed his Camaro had set off half an hour after the call and had been driven in the opposite direction from the way Danny should have been heading. They had found the car hours later when the worry had kicked in. It was parked near Danny's special place, locked and empty. Forensics drew a blank- there was no sign of foul play.

Danny had just gone.

They refused to draw the obvious conclusion, to begin with at least, and had searched for him obsessively, turned the islands and beyond upside down. They still hadn't given up. Still couldn't accept he'd gone off the nearby cliffs into the sea, be it voluntarily or not. They just had no active lines of enquiry.

Danny's official status was missing presumed dead.

Cleaning out his house when his lease eventually expired had just about killed Steve. They had worked together silently, he and the rest of the team, boxing Danny's possessions and moving them to Steve's garage. Grace had helped, her cheeks damp with tears. Something had cracked inside Steve that day. That was when the reality of the situation had sunk in, when his personal spiral had begun. He hadn't been the same since.

He had come back home years earlier in search of his father's murderer as a battle-hardened SEAL but with an open heart, quick to draw the right people into his circle of friendship. Now his heart was closed. He could never take the risk of being hurt like this again.

He raised the bottle to his lips once more.

His phone rang mid-swig and he cursed inwardly. He was too drunk to go to work now, that was for sure.

He put down the bottle, pulled out his cellphone. He didn't recognize the number. He hit 'answer', growled out his name.

 _"Steve, long time no..."_

Freaking Joe White. Another two-faced bastard Steve had long since struck off from his mental list of reliable individuals. Steve cut him off. "What do you want Joe?"

" _Listen, I'm in Colombia, been doing a favor for an old friend. Long story short, I managed to get myself shot. I've been in hospital here for a few days."_

There was a protracted silence while Steve tried to decide if he should pretend he cared enough to ask more.

 _"Steve? Just listen. That's not why I'm calling, I don't need your… sympathy. Or whatever. I'm calling because Danny's here too."_

Time stood still. Joe was still talking but everything tunnelled around Steve, his hearing devolving into static. "Joe, you better not be fucking with me here," he managed to spit out eventually. His voice was actually shaking.

 _"Trust me, Steve. It's him. He's apparently been here for months. Someone found him dumped at the side of a road last year, seemingly left for dead. They had no idea who he was. Physically he's healed, but he's essentially catatonic. Severely traumatized, they think. He's not talking. Well not meaningfully. But it's him."_

Steve couldn't speak.

He heard Joe sigh deeply at the end of the line. _"I'll send you the location. Steve… just don't expect too much."_

TBC

 **Please review (I think)... :)**


	3. Colombia

**Apologies for the delay- I was hoping FF would fix their 'reviews dropping into a black hole and disappearing' issue quickly but it doesn't seem to be happening yet. Half the reviews might be AWOL but I did see them via email before they vanished and I appreciate them very much! I just can't reply to them as the reply URL isn't working either so I'm sorry for that. Joy. Anyway, I've run out of patience so I'll bash on with posting and just hope they reappear at some point :)**

 **More apologies because this is long, but it either had to be one chapter or five chapters and, as I said, I never did have any patience, so you're getting it like this!**

CHAPTER 3- COLOMBIA

 _DAY ONE_

Catatonic stupor. Dissociative state. The terms had been bandied around and perhaps it had all lost something in translation, or perhaps he hadn't been listening as closely as he should, but either way they had failed to convey what Steve was actually faced with when he had eventually arrived at the tiny but well-equipped Hospital Arsenio Repizo Vanegas in the small town of St Agustin, Colombia.

Steve sat by the bed, close but not too close, trying to breathe. He couldn't look away from this man, this shadow of his former partner.

Danny was curled tight in a foetal position, eyes open but focused fearfully on nothing at all. His body was thin and wasted, his hair clipped short thanks to a recent outbreak of lice on the ward. Nobody knew exactly what had happened to him, but his many scars and the injuries he had been found with told a story that Steve couldn't quite bring himself to face. Not yet. His partner had been tortured and abused in the worst possible ways for a prolonged period of time. Months at the very least.

The physical damage was now all but healed. Danny was being maintained via the PEG feeding tube that had been surgically inserted in his gut because they couldn't get him to eat voluntarily. They could hardly get him to do anything in fact. Yes, physically they'd fixed him, but psychologically… they hadn't even scratched the surface. Psychologically, Steve was told, they had seen no change, no improvement, in spite of trying a range of drug regimens.

Danny simply wouldn't engage. He showed no sign of recognition or comprehension. But he wasn't unaware of his surroundings, not completely at least. He whispered under his breath almost constantly, _counting,_ of all things, and whenever anyone approached him those whispers escalated, the words punching out ever faster, blatantly driven by panic. He was aware all right.

Steve had naïvely thought the sound of his voice would snap his friend out of it. That his tentative one-sided effort at their familiar banter would switch Danny back on, re-set his mind, break through his barriers. But his proximity caused as much distress as that of anyone else, no matter what he said or did.

He had brought a video, a message from Grace, on his cell. Her youthful excitement, the waver in her voice at the mere concept of her father being _alive,_ made his heart ache when he played it for Danny. He had been sure that her heartfelt words would cut through the mire. But when the pretty face on the little screen delivered her pièce de resistance, when she declared her love for her Danno, the shell of a man on the bed merely shook with fear, lips moving faster.

Steve put his cell away and died a little more inside.

Transportation to return them both to Oahu had been organised by Joe White, who was still hovering around in the background, disappearing and reappearing without explanation, no doubt busy with whatever semi-lawful endeavour it was he had originally come here to do.

They had five days to kill, five days before they had to leave to RV with the military transport plane.

Steve bought a bottle of whiskey.

He was slumped in the chair near to Danny's bed. He cast his gaze up, taking his friend in for a moment. For as long as he could bear. His eyes traced a long, ragged scar on Danny's left cheek before he looked back down. "Buddy, I know you just want to be left alone. Message received. I'll leave you in peace because I don't know how to help you. I'll just sit here, okay? Watch your back like old times. I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise." He barely whispered the words. They were maybe more for himself than for Danny.

He pulled the whiskey bottle from his backpack, unscrewed the top and tipped it up, drinking deeply.

Danny was counting quietly again. Steve listened. One to fifteen, every time, rubbing those fifteen neat little scars on his thumb, every time. Steve felt a sudden illogical loathing for the number fifteen, for his partner's compulsive need for it. He berated himself. His anger should be directed at whoever had done this to Danny, whoever had hurt him until he had been driven back into the recesses of his own mind. Steve couldn't seem to muster the wherewithal to even think about justice, or revenge. For all he wasn't really helping Danny, he couldn't bring himself to leave his side. Not now.

It would be hard to catch them anyway, he reminded himself, reasoning away his otherwise inexplicable indifference. The hospital had next to no information. Danny had been brought to them but they had no record of who had brought him in. His notes just said he had been found lying naked at the side of a dirt road in the mountains some 75 miles north of the hospital. Whoever had held him, whoever had ill-treated him for so long, it seemed they had simply finished with him and left him to die alone in the cold.

The window for retrieving forensic traces from Danny's body was long gone, the evidence lost forever thanks to the disinterest of the local police.

Steve wondered when Danny had first started counting. He wondered when he had lost his mind, what the final straw had been. How much he had suffered before that had happened. But he was still suffering, that was the worst thing about it, and he didn't even need to be. He didn't even know he was safe.

Steve couldn't help but feel he had failed. The old Steve would have found a way to get through to Danny. The old Steve would have held him, hugged him, told him it was over and been believable. He had tried to do those things, but it felt insincere because he was not that man anymore. His paltry efforts had only served to alarm Danny, driven him to count faster, to pull weakly away from him. It seemed that Danny's whole world had deconstructed into presence/absence of risk and counting to fucking fifteen. Maybe the psychiatrists in Oahu could help. God, he hoped they could help.

Steve took another drink.

...

 _DAY TWO_

"Steve?" Joe's low voice made him jump. He turned slowly in his chair, sliding his bottle away into his backpack smoothly.

Joe looked pointedly at the bag. He had blatantly seen what was inside. He didn't comment. He gestured for Steve to follow him out into the corridor.

Joe leaned heavily against the wall opposite the door. Steve settled stiffly beside him, ill-at-ease.

"Steve, my, er… colleagues and I have been asking some questions. We've found the man that brought Danny in."

Steve's jaw dropped. "Y-you've been working Danny's case?"

Joe frowned at him. "Of course. Jesus, Steve, what else would I be doing? Danny's a good man and the things they did to him… someone has to pay. To be honest I thought you'd be out bashing heads yourself by now. I guess you've other things on your mind." He turned his head, glancing pointedly towards the backpack.

Steve shook his head. "No. I-I… Danny needs me. Okay?"

Joe frowned harder, eyes flicking over to the still form in the bed. "He needs you," he said flatly. "Does he know you're here?"

Steve flared his nostrils, stuck his jaw out stubbornly. "I'm working on it, okay?" he said, tone defensive. "Just tell me what you've found out."

Joe let out a long breath. "I've found out the man who picked him up is scared. He's a poor family man, has a lot to lose if you know what I mean. He was very unwilling to talk. That means there's someone with some clout involved. We both know the obvious answer to who that might be."

"Reyes. His family? Or the cartel?" There had never really been any doubt there had to be a link, ever since Colombia was first mentioned. The very notion of becoming embroiled in something here again turned Steve's stomach.

Joe nodded. "It's a safe assumption there's a link given Danny's history. We know the cartel Reyes worked for is active fairly close to here so it would fit. The organisation is huge and, as we know, has CIA backing. Those things in mind, I'm trying to be discrete. It would be a non-starter to try to take down the whole cartel. I don't know about you, but I'll be happy if the specific people who've laid hands on him are neutralized."

Steve nodded dumbly, for all that scenario was horribly reminiscent of what had happened with Danny and Matt. That hadn't worked out so well.

"How's the enquiry going at the other end?" asked Joe. "Any leads on the mechanics of how they got him out, who was involved there? Who took him to begin with?"

Steve had given it no thought whatsoever. His focus had been getting here. Seeing Danny. That was it. The team knew that Danny had been found, of course, and where. They had never discussed it but, Steve realized, even with the limited new information they had, they would be digging anew. He could depend on that, on them, for all he had been pushing them away for months. That internal acknowledgement left a tight feeling in his chest. He huffed out a breath. "I need to check in, see where they're at. I'm overdue."

Joe stared at him for a long, drawn out moment, holding his gaze until Steve had to look away. "Steve, this man, he said when he found Danny he thought he was dead. He was covered in blood and barely breathing. He thinks he had only just been dumped. His brother had walked past the same bit of road just an hour earlier and saw nothing. If Danny hadn't been found so quickly, he would be dead and we would never have known what had happened to him. Whoever dumped him did _not_ expect him to survive."

Steve didn't reply. A lump rose in his throat and he looked resolutely towards Danny, willing himself not to cry. He sensed Joe turning towards him then the man's big hand dropped onto his shoulder.

"Steve, I can see things haven't been right with you, I'm not blind. I wish I could have been around for you. I'm sorry. But whatever has been going on in your head these last two years, you need to draw a line under it. You have him back, maybe not as you would want him, but you still have him back. This man is what Danny Williams is now and he needs you firing on all cylinders, whether he comes round or not, whether he recognises your voice or not. Find your focus. Find your _anger_. You hear me? He needs _you_ , not some… zombie sitting there wallowing in self-pity _._ "

Steve didn't reply. He hung his head as Joe walked away.

A few beats later, he pushed himself off the wall and wandered back into Danny's room on legs that inexplicably felt like jelly. He sat down, shaking. He suddenly had no idea what he was even doing there. He was fuck all use to Danny, fuck all use to Joe. Find his focus? How was he meant to focus on anything when Danny was lying here like this and he couldn't even find anything to say or do that didn't seem to scare the shit out of him?

Screw Joe White. How dare he say those things?! The cold bastard could have no idea how he was feeling. He had no right to question how he was managing his issues. He reached down for his bottle and took another numbing swig of whiskey.

He listened to Danny, his whispered words barely audible but so intense, so forceful, almost as though they had a deep and hidden meaning beyond obsessive, repetitious self-comfort. Those simple words clearly meant everything to Danny now.

Without conscious thought, Steve's lips began to move in time with Danny's, hesitant at first, then certain and committed.

He started to count too.

...

 _DAY THREE_

" _Steve, hey. How is he? Any improvement_?"

It was surprisingly good to hear Chin's voice, calm and measured as always. "Not really. You getting anything your end?"

 _"Yeah. We've been looking at potential transportation. We have a container ship as a possibility- one headed out bound for Tomaco in Colombia four hours after Danny disappeared. Kono's going through the manifest and Lou is trying to get a list of the crew out of the shipping company. We'll let you know what we find."_

"Thanks, Chin. Listen, this is a reach. Danny keeps counting to 15, over and over, counting these freaking scars on his hand. They think it doesn't mean anything, it's just a self-comfort thing. But there's something about the way he says it. I'm wondering if it does mean something more to him. Or meant something to him at one time. Can you bear it in mind? I mean it could be anything, licence plate, address, freaking shoe size. Maybe a container number? And I don't know if the connection could be in Oahu, or Colombia, or somewhere in between. It's… I'm sorry, Chin. I just think maybe it might help Danny if I knew why it was so important to him, that's all."

 _"I'll do my best. Steve, what are the doctors saying? What's his prognosis?"_

Steve paused, put a hand over his eyes. "They don't really know. He's really fucked up, Chin. I don't know… I don't know if he can come back from this."

There was a silence, because Danny wasn't only Steve's friend. Steve could still acknowledge that on some level.

 _"I'm sorry, Steve. But he's safe, right? No more pain."_

"Yeah. No more pain." Steve hung up fast before his composure could crumble.

….

It became a habit, counting with Danny. For the best part of two days, Steve did little but sit with him and do just that.

Two more days to kill. All the transportation and patient transfer arrangements were in place thanks to Joe and the medical personnel. Danny's doctor had apparently been in contact with Tripler, had emailed Danny's records, his drugs schedule. Steve had contributed nothing. It felt like everything was happening around him and Danny, like they were in their own little universe where nothing mattered but counting to fifteen.

Steve counted until he needed a drink, then drank until he needed to count.

Then he began to play with the counting, just a little, because the monotony was punishing. He found he could con himself into thinking he was communicating with Danny in the most abstract of ways.

He did what Danny did, but pre-empted his partner's stress-related changes in speed, having the unfair advantage of being able to actually see other people coming. It felt like he was warning his partner on some level by accelerating his own counting, letting him know someone was approaching, something new was about to happen. Then he'd slow back down again in an effort to tell Danny there was nothing to be scared of.

It was ridiculous because Danny didn't even know he was there.

He kept counting when Danny slept. The man thrashed around weakly, gripped by nameless terrors in his fleeting moments of slumber. It didn't seem to happen, not quite as much anyway, when Steve counted for him.

That made Steve wonder.

Then there was Danny's scarred thumb. Steve had reached for it on impulse on the second day while his partner slept, thinking he should stroke it like Danny seemed to need to if he was to do the job properly. Danny had woken at his touch, his unseeing eyes fearful. He had launched into his mantra at top speed. Steve kept counting too but insistently slow and loud, louder than Danny. Eventually Danny had slowed too, had begun to relax. He hadn't pulled away. He had allowed Steve's hand to stay where it was.

That made Steve wonder more.

Steve counted quietly now, staring at Danny. Danny was resting, eyes open and distant, but he wasn't counting. It almost felt like he was listening to Steve, allowing him to carry the burden for a while. Steve liked that feeling. But then he hung his head because he was kidding himself and he felt so sad and he couldn't even begin to imagine how Grace and Charlie were going to cope with their father reduced to this.

Then Danny's finger twitched. He began to count too but his words accelerated rapidly, rushed out in an urgent whisper. Something was wrong.

Steve glanced up in concern, then froze. Danny was _looking at him,_ his pale blue eyes widening with terror.

"Danny?" he said softly.

He could have kicked himself, because his partner's counting went into a panicked overdrive in a fraction of a second, the numbers falling from his lips like machine-gun fire. Steve tried to keep his head in the face of the enormity of that negative reaction, because he was pretty damn sure Danny could see him and Danny could hear him but Danny _didn't know him_.

He stared into Danny's panic-stricken eyes as the man tried, painfully weakly, to free his hand from Steve's. Then something solidified inside him. Steve started to count again, holding Danny's gaze. He spoke firmly and now held the scarred hand tight. He slowed his counting steadily, deliberately, slower and slower. The message he was trying to project; _Safe. Trust._

Danny heaved in great lungfuls of air, stuttering uncertainly. His eyes dropped down to their joined hands. Slowly, slowly, his counting steadied, then fell into line with Steve's.

Steve scarcely dared to breathe, scared he would do the wrong thing, break the spell. But there could be no doubt. As Danny's tense, shaking hand slowly relaxed in his grip, Steve felt a wholly out-of-proportion burst of triumph. It had worked.

Danny had understood. Danny knew he was there and Danny trusted him.

….

 _DAY FOUR_

The counting thing had started something. A connection of sorts, primarily between the two men, but a ghost of a connection between Danny and the real world was also forming. If Steve was there, if Steve was providing reassurance in the way Danny understood, he seemed to _look_ at things, at his surroundings, like he was daring to explore reality for the very first time now he had someone by his side who he could trust, someone to hold his hand.

It wasn't just Steve that had noticed it, it wasn't just in his head. Danny's doctor had stood back and watched them discretely, and was astonished. He was encouraging Steve to try more.

Steve discovered he could talk to Danny now, he didn't have to stick to those fifteen fucking numbers any more. As long as he kept his voice low, his tone light, Danny seemed to listen without getting upset. Whether he understood or not was a whole other question, but Steve wasn't even letting himself think about that. If Danny became distressed, or started counting at all, Steve would revert to that safest of territories, counting along with him, rubbing his hand.

He wanted to try something new. He held up a tiny pot of plain yoghurt and a spoon, showed them to Danny. "You want to try to eat? That stomach tube thing looks like no fun at all."

There was no reaction. No reaction was not a bad reaction. He could work with that.

"Okay. We'll give it a go. I'll help you. You trust me, remember? I'm holding you to that."

He stirred the spoon around a couple of times before lifting it, scraping it on the edge of the pot to avoid drips. He was suddenly reminded of feeding Joanie, back when she was a baby. She and Mary were just two more people he'd squeezed out of his life when Danny had gone. He had hurt those around him to avoid being hurt further himself. It was unforgivable, really. A lump rose in his throat. He took a moment, glancing from the spoon up to his partner's face.

Danny, propped up on pillows, was watching silently, pale blue eyes flicking nervously from Steve's to the little pot. His lips trembled. He was thinking about counting, Steve could sense it coming.

Steve looked down at the pot, wondering about Danny's experiences in captivity. Better safe than sorry, he thought, then put the spoon into his own mouth. He ate the yoghurt, held up the empty spoon for Danny to see. "It's okay, buddy. Not the best but it's passable. Trust me."

He took another spoonful, this time raising it to Danny's mouth. He tapped it gently against his partner's lips then held his breath.

Slowly, hesitantly, never once taking his gaze from Steve's eyes, Danny opened his mouth.

Steve nearly broke down. The gesture of trust from the man who had been abused so badly for so long was almost more than he could take. He spooned in the yoghurt, breathing hard to control his emotions, then dipped the spoon back into the white gunk and stirred frantically. He was going to have to think about something else to keep it together. Jesus.

He watched as Danny successfully swallowed down the first solid food he'd taken willingly in God only knew how long, then began to talk quietly as he fed his friend one tiny spoonful at a time. Talking seemed like as good a thing to do as any.

"So you and me," he began, "we worked together for five years. Partners. Cops, you know? And we hung out too, we were friends. Close friends." He laughed quietly. "You liked to complain. A lot. Sand, pizza toppings, musical preferences, interrogation techniques. You name it, we could argue about it. But it was good. It was our thing. I liked to press your buttons, wind you up. You liked letting off steam. We had fun, buddy. We were one hell of a good team."

He glanced up from the spoon. Danny's eyes were on his, his gaze piercing. Right at that moment it was hard to believe he wasn't one moment away from cracking some sort of shitty joke at Steve's expense. Course, if Danny did ever really come back to them, he was gonna be pissed with Steve for a whole pile of things. He would be yelling at him, not joking. Steve would give anything to hear Danny yell at him again.

That thought released something in him and then the words were just falling out, like he was in some sort of fucking confessional. "So, I've been a dick to the rest of the team since we lost you. A dick in general in fact. I just…I didn't know how to cope I guess. I missed you. I blamed myself- still do. And we didn't know what had happened. I spent all my time wondering. Picturing the worst." He snorted. "I wasn't far off the mark with that."

He took a shaky breath, hesitating long enough to make sure he wasn't upsetting Danny with his unsolicited monologue. Danny still stared, not reacting. Steve nodded curtly, taking his acquiescence as licence to continue unburdening his soul. "So I've been hiding out, refusing to see people outside of work. Except your kids, man," he added with a weak smile.

He watched Danny's face carefully, still hoping for some flicker of recognition when he spoke about the two most important people in his partner's world. "Yeah, so I get to see your kids once a month. We have fun, talk about you a lot. Gracie, she's the best. So grown up now. And Charlie? You want to see that boy run! He's gonna be an athlete for sure. Your ex, Rachel, she's a force to be reckoned with though. I think in your absence she decided I was the next best target for her wrath. I know you always had a thing for her but I never realized you were an actual masochist, buddy. She's not the easiest woman."

Danny was still watching.

Steve crushed the disappointment that threatened to rise when none of that got a reaction, because that wasn't fair. It was too much to hope for. He huffed out a breath. "So the rest of the time I work, I push people away and I maybe drink too much too. Not every day. Okay, pretty much every day, if I'm honest. No way would you have let me get away with that." He paused, looked at Danny doubtfully.

"So I'm sorry. And I miss you. And I'm gonna do anything I can to make things okay for you. I guess you don't remember me, or any of us, right now. Maybe you never will. But it doesn't matter, I don't want that to worry you. You have a family in Hawaii who will love you no matter what. I've got your back no matter what. If you can't remember your old life, fine. We'll just have to make you a new one."

Danny was still listening. He still wasn't counting.

Steve smiled at him cautiously. He was sorely tempted to ask him to say something, _anything_ , that wasn't a number between one and fucking fifteen.

He opened his mouth but then hesitated, seeing the trust in Danny's gaze. It suddenly struck him how far they had really come over the last few days. It all felt huge, overwhelming. He couldn't push. He couldn't betray that trust.

Steve gently wiped a drop of yoghurt from Danny's chin with his thumb. He huffed out a shaky breath. "Hey, you did good, partner. Finished the whole pot! You want to count now? Let's count."

He sat back, setting the empty pot down. He took Danny's hand and bowed his head as they began to count quietly together.

...

 _DAY FIVE_

The bond was growing. It was less uncertain, more of a given. Danny was allowing things that had driven him into a flat out panic just three days earlier. The daily rituals of the bed-bath, the cursory shave, the checks, feeding him, maintaining his tube… he was tolerating them all and more as long as Steve was there to help him count. And the shutters weren't coming down as often. He would watch what was happening around him instead of retreating into himself.

Steve wondered. The level of trust was so great, he had to wonder if there was a shadow of memory behind it.

Steve was proud as hell of how far Danny had come… but he craved dialogue. There _had_ to be a way. So he waited for a moment when Danny seemed relatively relaxed, then went for it. He was holding Danny's scarred hand and he gave the back of it a gentle rub with his thumb, got his attention. "Hey, buddy. I want to try something. I don't want you to worry about it, it's just an experiment, okay? I'm just wondering if _you_ can maybe tell _me_ something, somehow. I thought we could try the old 'one for yes, two for no' thing. We can try different ways to do it, see what works. Okay, Danny, can you blink for me? Just one time. One time means 'yes'.

There was no response. Danny stared at him blankly.

"Okay, that's okay. How about this. Can you squeeze my hand? Same thing, one time for 'yes'."

Nothing.

Fuck.

He had to think smaller.

"How about this. You're looking at me right now. If the answer is 'yes', you look down at your hand. I know you can do that, buddy. Please. Danny, do you understand me? Look at your hand for yes, okay?" There was a desperate, pleading note in his tone that he hadn't intended at all and he heard his own voice waver with emotion.

Danny didn't break eye contact. His face became tense and his lips began to move silently in his infernal never-ending mantra.

Fuck. "Sorry, Danno. Sorry, it's okay. That was too much. Okay, let's count. Six, seven, eight, nine…"

Steve kept up with Danny's counting, trying to ease back the speed. Fuck. Danny couldn't even comprehend the most basic of instructions. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_. He looked up, saw Danny's shutters had come down, the gaze now distant and unfocused.

He kept counting, kept one hand on Danny's, but he reached under his chair for the whiskey because by fuck he needed a drink.

He unscrewed the top one-handed, then lifted the bottle to his lips. He broke count, just for a second, just long enough for a quick slug.

Danny squeezed his hand, hard, twice.

Steve lowered the bottle in astonishment, stared at his partner. Danny was switched on again, staring at the bottle, an unreadable expression in his face.

"Danny? W-was that two for 'no'? Buddy, are you telling me 'no'?"

Danny didn't react. He seemed frozen, staring at that bottle like a rabbit caught in headlights.

"Danny?" said Steve hesitantly. "Do you understand me?"

One squeeze. _Yes._ Then Danny's eyes widened with horror and he was breathing hard, curling in on himself, counting manically. He was panicking like he'd just crossed some unseen boundary without permission.

Steve was agape. But then he shook himself, placed the bottle on the floor and grabbed Danny's hand in both of his. His partner was crashing hard and fast. "Hey, hey, it's okay, it's okay," he said hurriedly, "you've done nothing wrong. It's okay, we can count." He jumped in, following Danny's lead with the numbers, but his mind was working at a million miles an hour.

Danny _did_ understand. He was just fucking _scared_.

….

Blinding panic.

Danny (and he knew his name was Danny now, thanks to the ramblings of the tattooed man, some of which he understood, some of which he didn't) had gone too far, he knew he had and he didn't know how he could have been so stupid. The man who had him now, he had been good to him so far so why the hell had Danny tried to ask him not to drink? What the hell had he been thinking?

He knew his place and he knew how to survive, he had learned those things through a catalogue of horrific experiences. Keep fucking quiet. Keep fucking still. Pretend you're not there. _Don't_ be there. Stay in your head. If you stay in your head it doesn't hurt as much. If you don't react they lose interest faster.

The tattooed man had changed things. Tricked him? No, he had _counted_ with Danny. Soothed him when the fears built. Made him _trust_. Opened the door to his mind, just a fraction, which was more than anyone else had managed for as long as Danny could remember. And what had he done to thank his new master for that gentleness and understanding? Broken the rules, voiced an opinion, and he had no idea where the opinion had even fucking come from because why should he even care if the man drank all the time? It made no sense!

He would be punished. The tattooed man would cut him and beat him and burn him and rape him. He didn't want those things again, especially now when his body didn't even hurt that much anymore.

He curled up tight, counting hard, building up his barrier, ready to shut out the pain that would surely come.

But the pain didn't come. The echo started up again.

The tattooed man… Steve? He was counting with him! Danny had fucked up monumentally yet the man was simply counting with him again.

He listened in astonishment, still breathing hard, still counting hard, still anticipating pain. He listened as Steve gradually slowed his counting, persisting until Danny couldn't help but follow his lead as the panic started to recede and the adrenaline dispersed.

Danny dared to crack open his eyes.

Steve was there, watching him anxiously, counting steadily, soothingly, stroking his hand.

Steve reached up hesitantly. Danny flinched back, but Steve simply touched his cheek then stopped counting for long enough to whisper quietly to him. "I'm not going to hurt you, Danny, never. I promise. No one's going to hurt you."

And he looked so damn sincere Danny found himself daring to hope it might be true.

TBC

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	4. The Journey Home

**Thank you all so much for the reviews. They might be invisible here at the moment but they have pride of place in my email in-box and I will send replies when they fix that function too (come on FF!)!**

 **Back to the boys...**

CHAPTER 4- THE JOURNEY HOME

 _BY ROAD_

Steve felt like he was trying to reawaken from a long, dark dream. Whether the dream had lasted five days or two years he wasn't quite sure, but he was waking up to a whole new reality. A reality where Danny was alive but Danny was different and _he_ was Danny's lifeline, Danny's anchor to the world. It had been Steve who had managed to reach him, Steve who had started to bring him back from that dark place in his mind.

That knowledge didn't fit well with Steve's now customary state of self-loathing and he honestly wasn't sure how to deal with it. New Steve was bowing under the weight of the responsibility, convinced he would fuck it up, longing to lose himself in a bottle. But the whiskey, for whatever reason, had upset Danny. Steve wouldn't be drinking in front of him, that was for sure. He had to keep it together. He was digging deep now, trying to channel Old Steve because this fucking mattered. This was Grace and Charlie's daddy, this was his best friend. This was _everything_.

The whole two-way communication thing was still brand new. Steve didn't wanted to push it, didn't want Danny to feel under pressure, so he had kept his attempts to 'speak' with his partner light and infrequent, kept things easy. He didn't want to go too far and frighten Danny back into himself.

Danny, for his part, was trying so hard it made Steve's heart ache. Eight hours on from the whole whiskey incident, the fear still showed in his eyes when he responded to the simplest of questions, but respond he did. He had latched on to the whole hand-squeezing thing and mastered it like an old pro. It was good, of course it was good… but it felt like Danny was trying to please Steve and something about that felt all wrong. Steve tried to ignore the feeling and revel in their monumental baby step.

However, there was no time to sit back and adjust to the new development. The day had come. They were traveling home.

Steve held Danny's hand, rubbed his scarred thumb, counting along with him absently as his eyes scanned the surroundings. They were en-route to Bogota, driving right through the heart of the cartel's territory. If Danny's former captors had caught a whiff of what was going on, anything could be waiting for them along that narrow road through the foothills of the mountains. At least Danny was low down and out of sight.

Steve and Danny were shoe-horned into the back seat of the non-descript pick-up Joe White had materialized with at the appointed hour. Danny's head was resting on a rolled up blanket in Steve's lap. He stared straight up at the roof, breathing hard through his nose, lips moving silently. He looked decidedly nauseous. Steve's left arm was slung protectively across his partner's body and Danny had a death-grip on his hand and forearm.

The whole process of being prepared to travel, of being moved outside to the vehicle then loaded into the thing had been hard on Danny. Stressful. He hadn't left that one hospital room for months after all, and the motion of the wheelchair, the sights and sounds of patients and staff bustling about their day to day business, the brief sensation of being _outdoors,_ was bewildering at best.

Steve had honestly expected his partner's shutters to come down, for those dead, distant eyes to make a reappearance. But Danny had tolerated everything. He'd coped by counting, of course, and gripping Steve's hand so tight his nails had drawn blood.

Steve glanced down at Danny's face. Danny now was his and his alone to take care of during the nine hour drive and the ten hour flight. That knowledge was enough to make his heart pound.

The sheets of instructions Danny had been released with were burning a hole in Steve's pocket. The drug schedule, the meals, the personal care. He hoped to fuck he could talk Danny into eating the measured meals the hospital staff had carefully packed for him because the instructions for using the PEG tube were pretty daunting. Who would have thought injecting liquidized food through a tube into someone's gut would be so complicated? But Danny's eating was brand new and very much hit and miss so they had shown Steve how to do it, made him do it himself before they had left. Prop patient up to at least 30 degrees, aspirate tube, flush tube, meds, med flush, feed, feed flush. Steve's Spanish vocabulary was certainly broader than it had been a week ago, that was for sure.

"You'll eat the food, right buddy?" He said the words under his breath, more to himself than anything.

Danny's eyes flicked over to his. He moved his fingers hesitantly in Steve's grasp, then seemed to summon the courage to respond. He squeezed Steve's hand once.

A slow smile grew on Steve's face because that basic level of interaction was a long way from getting old. "That's my boy," he murmured softly.

Danny held his gaze for a second then closed his eyes, lips still moving. He was stressed and they were only 2 hours in. At least the flight was direct, that was something. Having access to the military plane cut out transfers and extra time. Still, Danny was going to be completely exhausted by the time they reached Oahu. He was so weak and so thin, his stamina had to be around zero.

Steve watched the scenery flash by as he counted for Danny. The bright green vegetation, the jagged mountain peaks. If not for the persistent signs of extreme poverty, it would have been vaguely reminiscent of their home. It was a beautiful country. And the staff at the hospital- he couldn't think more of them. What they had done for Danny, the man with no name and no money- he would never forget it. A healthy donation would be coming their way when he got home. And that man who had risked everything by bringing Danny to the hospital to begin with… he would send something to him as well, somehow. It seemed strange to have found positive associations with Colombia after everything that had happened here.

A sudden gasp from his partner had Steve's attention firmly back on him. Danny began to thrash weakly, moaning in distress. A nightmare. He was having a fucking nightmare and Steve hadn't even realized he had fallen asleep.

"He alright?" asked Joe from the front.

Steve didn't answer. He bent his head down low, counting closer to Danny's ear. He held Danny steady with the arm that was already across him so he couldn't do himself damage in the confined space.

"Easy, easy. You're safe, I've got you," Steve breathed, taking a fleeting hiatus in the calming liturgy of numbers.

Danny jerked back to awareness, breathing hard, trembling from head to foot. The terror on his face was painful to see and it persisted even after his eyes came to rest on Steve's face.

Steve moved his hand to touch Danny's cheek and Danny flinched. Steve frowned, shifting his trajectory a little to stroke his partner's sweat-soaked hair instead. "Come on buddy, calm down, you were just dreaming. You trust me, remember?"

Danny was blatantly trying. He squeezed his eyes shut, panting hard.

"Hey, Danny, look at me," said Steve.

The blue eyes opened again, searched him out.

"You trust me. Right?"

One squeeze, clear and undeniable for all that hand was shaking and Steve couldn't help but smile because there had been no hesitation whatsoever. "Good. I won't let you down, buddy. And I'm telling you you're safe, so just relax, okay?"

They counted quietly together as Danny slowly came back to himself.

Steve watched the landscape roll by, trying to get a grip for he too was far from calm. He wondered about the trust between them and not for the first time. After several long minutes Steve looked down, needing to _know_. He squeezed Danny's hand, got his attention. "Now you know I'm not gonna hurt you, no matter what you do, yeah? I know bad things happened to you before. Hey, look at me! But you're safe now. It's not possible for you to say or do anything wrong. Understand?" He looked pointedly at their joined hands.

One squeeze.

Steve opened his mouth then stopped, cleared his throat. "Danny, do you remember me from before?"

Danny held his gaze for a moment then looked away. Two hesitant squeezes. Almost an apology. _No._

Steve really should have expected that, but it still hurt like a punch to the gut. "That's okay," he said anyway, tone light. "Don't worry about that. Trusting me is much more important because I'm going to get you home, safe, so you can start to heal. I'm going to get you the hell away from here. No one's going to hurt you again."

Danny's face took on a faraway look, then it screwed up as if he was in pain. He looked for all the world like he was replaying memories in his mind. That was new.

Pulse suddenly racing, heart in his mouth, Steve found himself asking the question that had lingered in his mind since he had realized how damaged his partner had been rendered. "Danny?" his voice was low and gentle and he gripped Danny's hand, tight. "Buddy, do you remember any of what happened to you?"

Danny's eyes jerked over to look at Steve, breaths coming faster once more. He squeezed Steve's hand, once. His fingers were trembling.

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, because for all he didn't know everything that had happened to Danny, he knew enough and it would have been so, so much better if Danny remembered none of it at all. And that new knowledge should have been enough because he didn't mean to push, but for all he had changed Steve was still seven years a cop and he needed more. "Danny, do you remember who hurt you?"

One squeeze, then the counting began in earnest.

Steve looked up, even as he too started to count without even needing to think, the act now ingrained in his sub-conscious. He caught Joe's questioning eye in the mirror and nodded once. They did _not_ expect that. They did not think there was any chance Danny might be able to ID any of the people who had assaulted him. Joe had photos of potential suspects on his cell. If Danny could pick anyone out….

Steve glanced down at Danny, then back at Joe. He shook his head once. _Too soon_.

"Ok, it's OK. I've got you, buddy. OK, you did real good. Let's just count now, you and me together."

Steve murmured the words, then bowed his head. He kept pace with Danny's counting then dropped his speed back slowly until Danny fell into line with him, until he felt the tension begin to melt away from his partner's rigid muscles.

He glanced at the backpack down at his feet, yearning for a quick drink to take the edge off his own tension. It had been a good few hours now since his last one. He felt twitchy. Uneasy. He looked at his partner. Danny was trusting him blindly through what had to be a bewildering, disorienting experience and there was so much more to face yet. Danny's need for his support was constant and intense. He couldn't let himself get overwhelmed by it. He had to stay sharp, he had to stay focused, to do the right thing at the right time. He should stop anyway, really, stop the habit. Cut back at least. He blinked in confusion then because those thoughts were new. He looked at Danny's face again.

Maybe he needed this as much as Danny did.

 _BY PLANE_

Danny slept for most of the flight, entirely exhausted by the day.

The crew had rigged up a low stretcher for him, secured to the floor beside the jump seats. Steve wished there was one for him too, because he was wiped out. The noise of the engines seemed to be lulling Danny so Steve took a break from counting. It was strange. It seemed like something was missing because those numbers had been a perpetual part of his waking life for days.

Steve kept himself awake and, more importantly, distracted from the contents of his backpack by playing with his cellphone. He flicked idly through the photos stored on it. His hands kept shaking which didn't help. He was sweating too for some reason, for all it was cool in the aircraft. He wiped an unsteady hand across his brow then reached for another blanket to lay gently across Danny.

He turned his attention back to the photos. The ones Joe had sent him were first on the list- the faces of those suspects. Joe wasn't traveling with them to Oahu. He had business to conclude in Colombia which, should Danny make an ID over the next few days, would include doing his best to round up any of the wastes of skin who had hurt the man so badly. What Joe would then do to them… that wasn't for Steve to know. It would be dealt with, that was all that mattered. Steve trusted him on that.

But Steve would wait until he felt Danny was strong enough before he showed him the photos. Danny's increased awareness, his willingness to try to communicate despite his obvious fears, were gifts that could not be taken for granted. Seeing the faces of the men who had abused him could have catastrophic effects.

None of the suspects were familiar to Steve and he soon tired of glaring at them hatefully, one by one. He moved on to personal photos. A mere handful post-dated Danny's disappearance and they were all of Danny's kids. He flicked back the way, back in time. He had several photos of Danny himself, mostly sneering at the camera, undoubtedly in the middle of delivering some sarcastic remark. He stopped on one. Danny looked pissed but animated, full of life and bursting with self-confidence.

He had fallen such a long, long way.

Steve put a hand up over his face, suddenly one very big step closer to losing his resolve over that half-drunk bottle of whiskey. His hand went down to the zipper of his backpack.

Then he realized Danny's eyes were open and on him.

He forced a smile. Fast. He held up his cell, covering hastily. "Hey, buddy! I was just looking at some photos." He blinked a few times, hastily re-structuring his thoughts from negative to positive. "Hey, you want to see some? There's gonna be a lot of people keen to see you when we get back once you feel up to it. Might be good if you could try to learn who some of them are. Might even help you remember if we're lucky. You want to look?"

He looked at Danny expectantly, then shook himself and leaned forwards to take Danny's hand.

One squeeze.

Whether Danny was actually interested or whether he was trying to please Steve again was debateable, however his acquiescence provided the perfect distraction for both of them. Steve unstrapped himself, sat down cross-legged on the floor beside Danny.

Steve began to scroll through the photos. He spoke softly, explaining who everyone was, trying not to get too emotional when he had to point Danny out to _himself_.

Danny listened obediently, his face an unreadable mask.

Then Steve came to one of the two of them together, Danny and Steve, partners and buddies. Grace had taken it with Steve's cell, had made them pose together, cheek to cheek. For some reason Danny hadn't been able to stop laughing for all Steve could recall he was doing nothing but bitching at the time. His mouth was a little blurred, which Steve clearly remembered teasing him for, because of course Danny's mouth never stopped moving so of course it would be blurred. Steve's own face was frozen in a wide, goofy grin.

His finger paused over the picture. His hand began to shake and he curled it into a fist, fast, put it down by his side so Danny wouldn't see. A lump rose in his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut, fast, but it was too late. A tear escaped, ran down his cheek.

A soft touch on his arm made him look back up. Danny was looking at him, eyes confused and full of concern.

Steve scrubbed a hand roughly across his face. "Sorry, Danny. It's fine, I'm fine. Just… those were good times, that's all. I'm just sad about how things have changed."

Danny's reaction shocked Steve to the core because he had seen this Danny terrified and withdrawn but never _upset._ Not once. Yet Danny's lips began to twitch and his eyes filled with tears. They began to fall. His mouth was working silently and Steve began to count for him automatically, reaching for his thumb. But Danny found the word he was looking for and it wasn't a number.

"S-sorry," he stammered.

And that was just fucking typical. Danny's first attempt at a _different_ word and it was an apology. Steve didn't know whether to hug him or go shoot himself. He had inadvertently made Danny think he was disappointed with him, that Danny was letting him down by not being the man in the photos, the man Steve missed so badly.

"No, _fuck_ , I didn't mean… None of this is your fault, Danny, and I know things are different now but I'm so, so happy we got you back. Please don't doubt that, not for a second. I just wish they hadn't hurt you the way they did, that's all. I wish I had known where you were. I wish I could have stopped it."

But the tears still fell. It was as if a dam had been broken. Danny began to sob, raw and wretched. Whether it was just over this or whether his mind was taking the opportunity to vent over the infinite traumas he'd suffered, it simply didn't matter.

Fingers shaking, Steve unstrapped his partner and gathered him up, held him tight. He winced at the feel of the ribs, of the thin shoulders. He began to count, whispering the numbers in Danny's ear, offering an apology, comfort, in the best way he knew even as his own tears fell silently and unchecked.

TBC

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	5. Oahu

**The review thing is fixed and I'm having a small party in my head! I will sit down tonight and do some hard-core replying to everyone :)**

 **Guest reviewer who wanted to know who the person is in the cover photo I'm using- he is just someone I know, no one famous. He is a physicist and that equipment is stuff he works with. The wacky outfit is just because he is... wacky. There is no link with H50 at all, except that I like them both!**

 **On with the story.**

 **Again, medical specifics come largely from the brain of KomodoQueen who notably shook me hard and told me to do the alcohol thing PROPERLY. Thank you, your majesty (bows).**

CHAPTER 5- OAHU

Danny had been an in-patient in the psychiatric unit at Tripler for two days, two days that he and Steve had spent side-by-side, Steve providing constant support and re-assurance as Danny tried to settle into the new routine amid a flurry of attention from medical professionals.

Everyone wanted to visit. _Everyone._

Grace, Charlie and Rachel, Chin, Kono and Lou, Kamekona, Toast, the Governor for God's sake, and many more besides.

Steve told them 'no'. All of them, every last one. Not yet. He was convinced it would be too much for his partner to take. Danny was still wary at best of people in general and his friends and family were effectively complete strangers. But Steve himself dreaded seeing each face as they took in Danny- thin and scarred and mentally damaged as he now was- for the first time. He dreaded seeing the disappointed realization, the _hurt,_ materialize as it became clear to them, one by one, that no, Danny really _didn't_ remember them. He wanted to protect Danny from those reactions and he wasn't ready to see them himself.

It would have to be enough for everyone right now to know he was finally home, finally safe.

Grace had sworn at Steve on the phone. She had apologized, but it had still stung. Just thinking about it made his thoughts return to the contents of the backpack in the trunk of his car. He hadn't touched it, not since Colombia, but he couldn't _fucking_ stop thinking about it. He bit his lip.

In truth, he hadn't realized how far gone he was until he was having to do without alcohol for Danny. Steve felt ill. Sweaty, shaky and sick. He had dismissed the developing symptoms until today because he was tired and the whole Danny thing- it was huge. But he had come to realize he had been kidding himself. He was just genuinely shocked things had gone this far. He hadn't had a drink for nearly four days now and he was in withdrawal. It was the DTs. He was an alcoholic and he had never even seen it coming.

He had pulled out his cell when it had first dawned on him, had looked on the internet to find out more. And by fuck was he in trouble. Willpower had always been one of his strong points but as it turned out coming off alcohol wasn't a simple matter of just not letting himself drink… the symptoms of the DTs could be nothing short of horrific. Sweating and nausea, yes, but also mood swings, anxiety, chest pain. He might even suffer hallucinations and _seizures_. Jesus. That simply couldn't happen, not right now when Danny needed him so badly.

In a different situation he might have hidden out, gone cold turkey where nobody could watch. But he couldn't do that. He had to keep himself going for the sake of his partner. He had resolved to speak to Danny's doctor and ask for help the next time the man was in while Danny was asleep. But the idea of _telling_ someone- that was beyond daunting. He could do it though. Maybe.

Right now everyone's focus was on Danny, just as it should be.

Danny had a private room at Tripler. It was on the top floor with a nice view that Danny had peered at briefly, wide-eyed and silent. His drug regime had already been reassessed. Now he was so much more aware- completely aware, really- the risperidone and lorazepam he had been on for some time would eventually be cut back. Meantime they had added paroxetine to his drugs schedule to help control his blatant symptoms of PTSD. He had a bewildering array of therapists to see on top of that- physical, occupational, cognitive, speech- the list went on and would apparently vary as time went on and his needs changed.

The extraordinary level of care Danny was now receiving could have left Steve side-lined but in reality the opposite was true. He remained key. Every last medical professional who had assessed Danny thus far had taken Steve to one side and asked politely if he would be willing to stay at least until Danny's confidence had improved. The unequivocal answer was yes. A second bed had been provided to accommodate him in Danny's room.

Danny was handling everything well, considering. He hadn't retreated into himself once in over a day, for all he looked perpetually apprehensive. But he still couldn't tolerate being touched by anyone unless Steve was by his side, his bodyguard, his rock. He needed Steve to stay close all the time, that apprehension morphing rapidly into anxiety if Steve so much as went to the john, that anxiety spiraling into panic if he was away a moment too long.

That was okay. The clinging need brought on by Danny's deep-seated insecurities could have seemed overwhelming but Steve was good with it because an image of his partner from seven days ago was seared forever in his mind and would appear in his nightmares until the day he died. The difference between _that_ and _this_ Danny was already like night and day. Steve now had hope that, in time, Danny was going to be capable of making a new life even if the lost memories never came back. Steve didn't really care if he had to stay by the man's side forever, he was _not_ going to let him slide back to what he had been.

In many ways the preliminary assessments had been surprisingly good. Danny had no problem forming new memories and he appeared to be re-learning facts at a rate of knots. There was nothing wrong with his comprehension, his basic word formation or, increasingly, his appetite.

Strength, co-ordination and, underlying everything, confidence were where he fell far short. As for the mental trauma he had suffered- it was impossibly hard to assess how severely that was likely to continue to affect him until he had the confidence and ability to speak about what had happened and how he felt.

The question of Danny's memory loss was complex. He didn't seem to have suffered any physical brain injury. His amnesia appeared to be psychogenic and essentially a severe form of PTSD. It was his brain's reaction to the sustained and horrific abuse that had been inflicted on him. It seemed likely, one of the specialists had explained to Steve, that Danny's normal memory processing had been blocked by an imbalance of stress hormones when he had been pushed to a specific tipping point. This had resulted in a complete loss of access to his biographical memory up to that moment. Danny could only remember what had come afterwards and what had come afterwards was not good.

Danny's case was as bad as they came. There was no way to put a timetable on any potential recovery, or even guarantee that he would ever recover his memories at all. Helping him strengthen and adjust were the priorities.

Steve didn't even want to think about what those bastards had been doing to Danny when he had reached that mental tipping point. The story that Danny's scars and medical record told was now carefully cataloged in the form of a list in Steve's head- a factual, impersonal list of the things they knew had been inflicted on him- the cuts and burns, the beatings, the sexual assaults. But to think about the reality of what Danny's day-to-day existence had been for so long, to imagine those terrible things really happening to his partner… To try to visualize the moment strong, proud, stubborn Danny had actually snapped... it was unbearable.

Steve tried not to dwell on it, tried to concentrate instead on the here-and-now, on building on the progress Danny had made already. Steve had essentially been winging it in Colombia and it would never cease to astonish him that the things he had tried on the basis of pure instinct had worked as well as they had. But now, courtesy of various doctors, he was armed with specific advice to follow and exercises to work through. And whatever Steve asked of him, Danny tried his very hardest to deliver. Steve had to be careful not to push too hard because he had the unnerving impression Danny would jump off a building if Steve asked him to right then. Baby steps was the key. Nothing too hard or overwhelming.

Steve's assigned task for the morning was to encourage Danny to speak and to gently distract him from the still-frequent counting marathons. The two men were seated, face-to-face, in soft, comfortable chairs one of the many therapists had provided for them in the corner of the room.

Danny seemed to like the change in position for all he had to be carried there. It challenged him physically, gave him a different perspective. In contrast, it was a respite Steve sorely needed from the worsening symptoms of alcohol withdrawal he was trying his hardest to hide from Danny. The room spun nauseatingly and he mopped his brow almost continuously.

He saw Danny look at him uncertainly, an unvoiced question in his eyes.

Steve forced a reassuring smile. "I'm fine. A little tired is all. Right, let's try this again. I'll point at stuff. You tell me what it is. If you can't remember, don't worry. I'll fill you in and we'll try again later. Okay?"

Danny nodded then smiled shyly, looking down at his hands, because nodding was brand new.

Steve positively beamed with pride. "Perfect head motion there, Danno! Full marks. Right, I'm pointing, you start naming."

Danny's eyes followed Steve's finger to the door. He glanced at Steve doubtfully, then whispered "D-door."

"Good. Again." Steve moved his hand.

"F-floor."

"Got it in one. Next."

"Bed."

"Yes. Next."

"F-flowers." The quiet word was maybe a little drawn out, but entirely recognizable.

"Nice one. That was hard! And the flowers were sent in by our team, who are… ?"

"Chin... Kono… Lou."

Steve smiled broadly again because Danny was doing so incredibly well, for all he looked nervous as hell.

"And what's my name?"

"S-Steve."

"And your name?"

"Dann-y."

"And I am your…?"

"Ow-owner."

Steve, partially distracted by his own misery as he was and already considering his next question, almost corrected him automatically, almost said 'friend'... but then the implications of the word Danny had actually selected hit him. He froze, stared dumbly in complete and utter shock and disbelief, jaw hanging slack. He felt like he'd been slapped. Hard. With a brick. " _Owner_?! No, Danny, you don't _belong_ to me. You don't belong to _anyone_. Jesus!"

Steve stood up abruptly, walked to the window and pressed his forehead hard against the cool glass, heart beating wildly. The room spun faster and he thought for a moment he might actually be sick for a multiplicity of reasons. He had thought Danny trusted him, saw him as his friend and ally... but the man thought he was his _possession_?! How the hell had such a fundamental and horrific misunderstanding even happened? So, what, did Danny think he had been stolen? Steve had come to claim him back? Or that he'd been bought and sold, passed between kind and cruel owners like an animal?

 _Shit!_

He turned back to Danny, both hands on his head, breathing hard.

Danny was staring at him, wide eyed. He'd drawn his knees up onto the chair and his arms were wrapped around them tightly. He was counting for the first time in hours. He plainly thought he'd fucked up again.

Steve shook his head, walked over and sat back down. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his legs and realized his hands were shaking violently. _Shit._ He really, really needed a drink now. "Danny, it's okay, you've done nothing wrong. I've just assumed… way, way too much, clearly! I assumed you understood more than you do and that's my fault, not yours. Those men that had you, they didn't _own_ you, they _took_ you but they had no right to. They were breaking the law when they took you away from us and when they hurt you! I'm here because… because I'm your _friend_ and I want to help you, not because I _own_ you!"

Then that doubt that had niggled at the edge of Steve's mind ever since Colombia came back to him, and now it all made so much sense. Steve reached out and placed his hand on one of Danny's drawn-up knees, wishing briefly he could disguise those fucking tremors better. "Danny, is that why you're always trying so hard to do what I ask you to? Is that why you try to please me? Do you think you _have_ to because you belong to me?"

Danny blinked in confusion, breathing hard as he counted quietly. He dropped his gaze, staring resolutely down at the ground. He looked scared, entirely lost and horribly vulnerable.

Steve felt a renewed surge of protectiveness towards him. He pulled his chair closer to Danny's, then reached out, cupped Danny's chin and gently raised his face so he had to look Steve in the eye. "Buddy, it is really, really important that you get this. _I don't own you_. Nothing bad will happen to you if you don't do what I tell you, absolutely nothing. You're allowed to say 'no'. I'm not going to hurt you and I'm not going to leave you for as long as you want me with you. Listen Danny, this is a hospital, okay? You're here because you need help to get stronger and to remember how to do things and to think more clearly. You're not a prisoner _._ _Nobody_ owns you and they never have. I don't know... I don't know where this came from. Did they tell you that? The people who took you, did they tell you they owned you?"

Danny didn't reply, but Steve could see the answer in his eyes, he could see that he was right and God, he wanted to kill those bastards so badly it hurt. He took hold of Danny's shoulders, squeezing gently.

"Danny, you listen to me. They were lying. They were just messing with your head. _Shit._ Do you understand me, buddy? Whatever it was they told you, it wasn't true. They didn't own you and they had no right to hurt you."

Danny stared at him. Steve could almost see the cogs turning in his mind as the horribly twisted concept of the world that had apparently been foisted on him when he was vulnerable and weak, his mind a blank sheet of paper, was unceremoniously turned upside down. But then Danny seemed to center himself. The counting dried up. There was still fear in his eyes, that was seemingly a permanent fixture, but there was something different there too, something new that Steve couldn't quite define. Danny held out an open hand to him. "Ph-photos."

Steve frowned and sat back, releasing his hold on Danny, confused at the apparent abrupt change in subject. "What? You mean the ones on my cell? What you wanting to see, partner?"

"Tell… you. Who… Who hurt." The words came out awkwardly, but emphatically.

Steve blinked, trying to absorb what Danny was struggling to say to him. "The men who hurt you? Is that what you mean?"

Danny nodded.

Steve stared at him in shock. He hadn't even realized Danny had absorbed any of the brief conversations he'd had with Joe on the subject of the pictures of the suspects. Now he suddenly wanted to try to ID them? "Danny, are you sure?"

Danny grabbed his hand and squeezed it, _hard_.

TBC

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	6. Trust, Fear and Demons

**Got to say I'm totally overwhelmed with the feedback I've been getting for this. It means a huge amount so thank you all. I'm getting through the backlog and will finish replying to everyone later!**

 **Here's the next chapter. It's a bit cheesey bordering on melodramatic nonsense. Apologies. Don't give up the day job, Swifters.**

CHAPTER 6- TRUST, FEAR AND DEMONS

"You're okay, Danno. I've got you. You're safe."

Danny lay on his bed, curled on his side, his face covered with one hand as he listened to Steve's murmured words. He counted silently to himself in a quest for temporary escape. He tried not to think. Tried to shut out those two faces he had been able to point out to Steve with absolutely no hesitation whatsoever. Tried to shut out the many nightmare-like memories that went hand-in-hand with them.

But his mind was buzzing and he couldn't switch off.

Danny needed to zone out, just for a while, after seeing those men again. He needed that mental retreat. Steve seemed to know what he needed, Steve _always_ seemed to know what he needed. He had picked Danny up and carried him back over to his bed. He'd pulled the sheet over him and sat down beside him, held his left hand and rubbed those fifteen scars because Danny needed that too. He was counting for him again now, his voice soft.

But Danny couldn't switch off this time, it simply wasn't working.

Steve was trying his best to help him. Maybe that was part of the problem, because Steve was the quite simply the cornerstone of his tenuous mental stability and now… now Danny was having to completely re-define their relationship in his mind.

Danny's life had seemed simple to him. For the part of it he could currently remember he had been told he was a possession, treated like a possession. He had no choices, no valid opinion. That was not something he had thought to question and he had suffered silently. Then, out of nowhere, Steve had appeared by his side.

When Steve had come on the scene, drawing Danny out of himself one tiny bit at a time, Danny had no reason to think his own status had changed, for all the nature of the man who had him was like nothing he could recall experiencing before. Steve had been nothing but kind. He had earned Danny's trust by counting with him and he had never betrayed it, not once. Steve still counted with him every single time he needed it. He helped Danny when he needed help, he didn't punish him when he did the wrong thing. He took care of him and protected him from the other people around them, made sure they didn't come too close until Danny was ready for it. He had even held Danny when it all got too much, when he had cried on the plane. Steve had wrapped his big arms around him and Danny hadn't even felt trapped. He'd felt _comfort_.

But until today Danny had had every reason to fear Steve too, because he had been with Steve _before_. Danny might not remember it, but Steve had told him all about it so he knew it must be true. But then, for some unknown reason, that had changed. Danny had assumed he must have done something wrong- he didn't know what, but it must have been very bad indeed for Steve to let those other men take him. So Danny had tried his very hardest to please Steve so things wouldn't change like that again, so Steve wouldn't get angry and send him away. So he would _keep_ Danny because Danny did _not_ want to go back to where he had been before, that stinking prison cell with the tainted water and the cruel, cruel men.

He wanted to stay with Steve.

But now everything had been turned upside down. Steve didn't own him at all. Nobody did, or ever had. No one was allowed to hurt him at all.

It was a lot to take in.

Steve was his _friend_. Steve had used that term before; 'friend'. And 'partner'. But Danny had assumed that was just part of his uniquely benevolent approach to ownership. When Steve had used those words Danny hadn't even considered the possibility that the man was being literal for a single second.

But if Steve didn't own Danny, Steve had no obligation to him and that was terrifying in itself. What was holding him here, other than the memory of a friend who was now, to all intents and purposes, dead? What was stopping him leaving Danny here alone, going away to drink that drink he had smelt so strongly of until Danny's clumsy, accidental reprimand?

Danny tried to picture how he might cope on his own and his breaths came thick and fast, His mind looped in circles, anxiety blooming into panic. He really, really needed to shut down.

But he couldn't manage it, he couldn't get those barriers up! His mind began to race, filling with flashbacks of those two men he had picked out and others besides. Of what they had done to him while they laughed at him, spat on him. And his newly gained knowledge- the knowledge that they had lied, he did _not_ belong to them and he should never, ever have been treated like that… in a way that made it seem _worse_. The pain and humiliation he had experienced had become expected, almost accepted. But now… slowly, slowly it was dawning on him that he had been a victim. That the actions of those men had destroyed his old life. Destroyed _him_.

He was wrestling with inklings of an entirely new feeling. He was starting to feel _angry_. It had been born when Steve underlined the reality of what had happened to him, told him that the men had had no right to hurt him at all. It had gifted him the wherewithal to seize the initiative in the moment and identify them… but now he wasn't sure how to cope with it.

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair! It wasn't fair that they had done those things to him, it wasn't fair that they had hurt him until his mind had shattered, it wasn't fair that the memories he was left with were of _them_ and the things they had done to him _,_ not of the people Steve had told him he used to love and could still trust. Not even of Steve.

Danny curled up tighter, counted furiously. One to fifteen, one to fifteen, over and over and over again, his fingers joining Steve's to rub those fifteen scars on his thumb frantically as he tried desperately to zone out.

He just couldn't do it.

He stopped trying, exhausted. He let his thoughts and feelings wash over him without trying to find that semi-conscious escape. He let himself listen to Steve's voice counting for him, murmuring reassurance. He let himself begin to believe that Steve really was going to stay with him. He started to accept he _couldn't_ be sent away again even if he got things mixed up, or if he was too tired to try hard enough, or if he said the wrong thing. The minutes rolled by and Danny's pulse started to slow, his head began to clear.

Danny blinked his eyes open, looked up at Steve's pale, anxious face. Steve looked ill and that… that was all wrong. He wished he knew how to fix it.

Steve- his _friend_. The man who wasn't here because he was trying to fix his reclaimed property. The man who really would never hurt him, never punish him. The man who was here because he _wanted_ to be. He _wanted_ to help Danny through all of this shit, all these bewildering fears and thoughts and feelings, to help him negotiate the fractured wasteland of his mind and find a way to exist. And why? Simply because he was Danny's friend. That was it.

Trust and fear- those disparate feelings had defined his relationship with Steve to this point. But now… he had nothing to fear from Steve at all. Only trust was left.

It occurred to Danny that he must have been someone pretty special to have earned a friend like Steve. And he might not remember the person he used to be but, he resolved, he would do his damndest to become someone deserving of that friendship again.

Danny cleared his throat, really, really wanting to express all of those sentiments but knowing that was still well beyond his grasp. He smiled weakly instead and whispered two simple words...

"Th-thank you."

…

Steve sat perched on the edge of Danny's bed. Filled with pride yet still crippled with concern, he couldn't move his gaze away from his partner's face now he had finally fallen asleep, exhausted. He ran his eyes down the ragged scar on Danny's cheek. It must have bled so badly and hurt so much when the injury was inflicted on him during those dark, dark months. It had never been cared for, never been stitched. He needed to make everything right for Danny, that was all that mattered. Doing just that had seemed like an almost insurmountable task, but now... something was different. Something had changed.

Steve had been so, so worried when Danny crashed so hard after making the ID's. Danny had started to shake uncontrollably. He couldn't seem to stop staring at that last photo, at the face of one of the men who had hurt him so badly. Steve had gently plucked his cell from Danny's trembling hand and had lifted him over to the bed, laid him down carefully. Danny had curled up, panting hard and counting harder and Steve had truly wished he had never let him lay eyes on those bastards again.

But, for some reason, Danny hadn't fully withdrawn into himself and when he had finally calmed down, when he had looked up at Steve and for reasons unknown had whispered his thanks, there had been something new about him. Something that Steve _wanted_ to say reminded him of the old Danny but he didn't quite dare to. That wasn't fair at all. But the fear that had been ever-present in his partner's eyes when he had looked at Steve before… Steve just couldn't see it. He still saw trust, even after the revelations which must have turned Danny's world upside-down, and rightly or wrongly that mattered to Steve beyond anything else. But, more than that, there had been an edge of determination about Danny that filled Steve with hope.

Steve was still counting for him, hoping it would help Danny find peace as he slept. He would count until he woke again, he wasn't going to leave his side. No way. He had phoned Joe, passed on the intel. Now his job was to keep Danny's demons at bay, to protect him from his nightmares.

But the room was spinning again. A tremor ran through his body and his hand slipped away from Danny's. He tried to lift it again, he _needed_ to rub Danny's scars for him. His hand wouldn't co-operate. The tremors were building. He just couldn't fucking stop them. The room was too hot. No, _he_ was too hot. The sweat poured off him. The nausea, the headache, the shakiness… they were _all_ building. _Shit._ He _had_ to keep counting for Danny.

He tried to shift position in the vain hope that might somehow help but his legs turned to jelly and he slid off the bed, landed on his knees. Everything around him suddenly seemed hazy and vague.

He _had_ to keep counting. The numbers were still coming out but his voice was slurring and he didn't know if it was good enough. He gritted his teeth, face twisting with frustration and _fury_ at his own weakness, at his own stupidity for inflicting this on himself to begin with. Danny needed him and he was letting him down.

The door opened. Steve looked up through blurred vision. He saw a white coat. One of Danny's doctors. He knew then, this was it. It was time.

"P-please. I need help," he slurred.

TBC

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	7. Scars

**If you're here, thank you for sticking with this story! And bonus thanks to KQ for medical whizzkiddery. Tried to keep it real, hope it passes...**

 **And excuse the terrible language, please!**

CHAPTER 7- SCARS

Steve lay flat out on his bed looking up at the ceiling of the hospital room. He felt weak and sick and the sweat ran down his face unabated. He had no one to blame, he had done this to himself, let himself go down a route he had never dreamed he would ever take. But he had finally sought help- sure, his hand had been pushed because he _had_ to be able to function for Danny and he had reached a point where he simply couldn't go on without medical intervention- but he had done it nonetheless. He had opened up to that doctor and told him he was an alcoholic.

He didn't feel relieved. He felt… dirty.

He turned his head, glanced at Danny. His partner had slept through the mini-drama of Steve's collapse, thank goodness. He was _still_ sleeping, hours later. In fact, it had to be the longest he had slept without chemical assistance since Steve had laid eyes on him in Colombia. He looked peaceful for all no one was counting for him.

Steve dug his hand in his pocket, felt the already part-used blister packs of pills- diazepam and thiamine- plus the box of ondansetron wafers they'd given him to combat that ever-present nausea. He'd turned down an IV in no uncertain terms- it would have made things way easier on him in the short term, but he had to try keep up the façade of being okay for Danny.

Tucked into his wallet was a card bearing details of the appointment for his first counselling session plus a contact number for Alcoholics Anonymous. He was going to use every single weapon he'd been given to fight this. He was going to face up to the humiliation and the stigma and draw a line under the past two years once and for all. It was time to start to move on. For Danny. For _himself_.

The drugs had helped to an extent already. He no longer felt like he was going to die at least. The doctor had just given him the packs- he wasn't an in-patient after all. Just. He was told not to skimp on the diazepam if he wanted to stay functional, and the medical staff _needed_ him functional. It was a delicate balancing act. Thanks to the medication, his head was buzzing and he felt a little like he was floating, but at least he was… still there, still by Danny's side.

But he also needed to rest as much as he could, ride out the symptoms with the help of the drugs. The doctor had said he would feel like this for days at best. Maybe weeks or more. That his body chemistry might not be right for months, he might feel down, depressed.

 _Fuck_. What a mess.

His cell vibrated in his pocket beside his hand. He pulled it out, flicked it on. It was a text from Joe. This was what he had been waiting for. He opened it, hands shaking.

 _2+3 tangos terminated. Limited new facts acquired. Of interest? 15 cuts self-inflicted._

Steve blinked, staring at the message. He read it again.

The first part was easy; Joe, or _someone_ , had killed the two men Danny had picked out, plus three more they must have established as having been involved. Most likely one had talked and given the others away, presumably given additional intel in the process. Joe was good at getting people to talk. Joe and his team had worked fast and, Steve was damn sure, would have worked cleanly. That was all good. That was fantastic, in fact. That was the information Steve had been praying the message would contain when it arrived. The bastards were done.

But the last bit of the text….

 _15 cuts self-inflicted._

The scars on Danny's thumb? Danny had cut _himself_? Joe had to be confident that fact was accurate or he wouldn't have bothered Steve with it.

Self-inflicted. What the fuck?

Why? Had he simply been self-harming as way of coping with the physical and psychological pain he was being subjected to? It was perfectly possible.

Steve suddenly remembered his first impressions of Danny's obsessive counting. He had thought to begin with that the number had to mean something to Danny, but no connection had come up with any of Five-0's lines of enquiry as yet. But if the cuts were self-inflicted… could Danny have felt his mind slipping and cut himself as a last ditch effort to hold on to some vital fact?

Steve reached into his pocket, pulled out the diazepam, head spinning.

 _Self-inflicted._

Fuck!

…..

Twelve hours later and Steve couldn't get the scar thing out of his head. His mind was flipping between dwelling self-indulgently on his own physical misery, concentrating on Danny as best as he could through his drug-induced haze, and obsessing over those fifteen little silvery lines. He _needed_ to know if Danny had really cut himself. _Why_ Danny had cut himself. He just wasn't sure how to ask.

He had already found the words to tell Danny his persecutors were now dead. Danny's reaction had been under-stated to say the least. He had nodded once in silent acknowledgement and then proceeded to stare at the wall for long minutes. Steve had watched over him quietly, braced to try to deal with any fallout. None came. He was pretty sure Danny had understood, that he was simply processing and filing the information away, unsure what to do with it right then. That was okay, that was understandable. Steve hoped the knowledge was helping on some level. And, really, it seemed to Steve that that should have been the delicate part of the conversation. Asking about the scars should have been the easy bit, comparatively speaking. It wasn't and Steve didn't even know why.

They were sitting on the armchairs again. Steve was popping the diazepam at a steady rate as per the doctor's unexpected instructions, making sure Danny didn't see. His mind felt strangely numb and his surroundings distant… but he felt in control in a way he hadn't for months without ever before having realized anything was amiss. He was doing his best to conceal his on-going sickness from his partner, who periodically shot him a look which Steve couldn't help but classify as 'penetrating.' Steve was still sweating like a bastard. It was hard to hide that. He swiped at his brow with the back of his hand, then cleared his throat. "Your turn, buddy." He glanced up when Danny didn't respond.

Danny was staring at him. His lips worked for a few moments, then he pushed out a quiet word. "Sick?"

Steve stared back, uncertain what to say. He didn't want Danny to worry but he didn't want to lie. He huffed out a resigned breath. "Yeah, Danno. But the doctor gave me pills while you were sleeping. I'll be fine. I just have to take it easy. But that's okay, we can take it easy together, right?"

Danny looked unconvinced.

Steve smiled at him. "And you'll look out for me, right partner?"

Danny nodded, dead serious, because he didn't know what he could possibly do to help Steve, but he knew he would try.

"Thanks, buddy," Steve said. A lump rose in his throat and he pointed down at the table set between them, deflecting hurriedly. "Come on, your move. I'm waiting," he choked out, then covered for his wavering voice with a strategic cough.

They were playing dominoes. It seemed strangely appropriate given Danny's penchant for numbers.

Danny switched his attention back to the table and, with considerable difficulty, laid down the tile that had been clutched in his hand. The tiles were extra-large, probably intended for toddlers, but his fine motor skills were a work-in-progress at an early stage. He persevered, then glanced up in triumph when he eventually succeeded.

Steve looked at him expectantly.

"Six and three," said Danny with a quiet smile. The exercise was simple on the face of it- he had to tell Steve the number of dots on both halves of every tile he played- but that meant he had to move the tiles, count the dots and put words together each time. It was no mean achievement.

Steve smiled back at him proudly. His gaze lingered and he watched as Danny moved his tiles around experimentally. His partner was relaxed, focused and receptive. Steve bit his lip, then cast caution aside and went for it, voicing the question he was fixating on in as general a way as he could muster on the spur of the moment. "Danny, does the number fifteen mean something special to you?"

Danny stared at him with complete and utter incredulity.

Steve instantly recognized the stupidity of what he had come out with, because of course the number fifteen meant something special to Danny. Much of his partner's remembered life revolved around it. "OK, forget that." He leant forwards, reaching across the table, and took hold of Danny's left hand, stubbornly ignoring the tremors persisting in his own. He rubbed his thumb over his partner's neat row of scars. "Danny, do you remember how these got here?"

Danny frowned at his hand, then blinked rapidly and breathed a little harder.

Steve's stomach dropped. In that moment he thought Joe had been wrong, thought the injuries had been part of some horrific torture Danny had endured and now Steve was all-too-casually asking him to re-visit it in his head. No wonder Steve's drug-addled mind had been reluctant to come up with a way to ask a superficially simple question. That made complete sense to him now, too late. He cursed inwardly, held his breath.

But then Danny looked up at him, something resembling amazement in his eyes. "Me," he answered, and his tone left Steve in no doubt that Danny hadn't thought about that in a very, very long time.

Steve smiled reassuringly for all his heart was now pounding. It felt so… significant. "Danny, do you remember _why_?"

Danny nodded, eyes wide. "To… remind." he tapped his head.

Steve couldn't tear his eyes away from Danny's. "To remind you of what, buddy?"

Danny frowned, then looked down, face sad, eyes apologetic.

The reason was gone.

Steve blinked a few times, almost surprised by the anti-climax, though he shouldn't have been. He squeezed Danny's hand for a moment. "That's okay. I was just curious. Don't worry about it, partner." He somehow manage to make his tone come out light. He watched Danny with concern, hoping he wouldn't take the perceived failure to heart.

Danny seemed to brush it off. Apparently deciding he'd had enough of the dominoes and exercising his newly discovered right to _choose_ , Danny picked up a car magazine Lou had sent in for them and started to flick through it clumsily.

Steve sagged back in his chair, relieved. He closed his eyes. They might never know the answer. The meaning of 'fifteen' might elude them permanently. Steve was gripped by disappointment and he didn't even know why it mattered so much.

TBC

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	8. Hoʻomanaʻo

**Many many thanks for all the reviews. Really appreciate them!**

CHAPTER 8- Hoʻomanaʻo*

The next day, Chin came to visit.

It was all carefully orchestrated. Steve, Danny and Danny's consultant psychiatrist all agreed that beginning to re-introduce Danny to the people who loved him would be a good thing, that he should be able to handle it now if it was done slowly and steadily. If both parties involved knew exactly what to expect there would less chance of any counter-productive melodramatic scenes.

Chin- stoic, solid and reliable with an aura that exuded calm- was the perfect choice for the first re-introduction.

Before the event, Steve showed Danny photos and talked to him about the man who had quite probably been his closest friend after Steve. He told him Chin was quiet and serious with a wickedly dry sense of humor. And he could be trusted with… anything. Voicing those facts- because that was what they were- served to remind Steve of his own behavior over the last two years. Chin had tried to reach out to him so many times. Steve had always turned away.

Chin played his role to perfection. He came armed with a reason to be there that wasn't Danny to take the pressure off from the outset; paperwork for Steve. The files he brought with him related to the container ship they thought Danny might have been smuggled away from Oahu on. The team were already going through them with a fine tooth-comb as part of the on-going investigation into Danny's kidnapping, and Steve's efforts were likely to be superfluous. That didn't matter. That wasn't the point of the exercise.

Chin walked in, sat down in the third chair the hospital had provided for the occasion and introduced himself to Danny, quietly and without fuss. He then turned and spoke to Steve. He laid the paperwork out in neat piles on the little table and the two men discussed it detail, giving Danny ample opportunity to get used to Chin- his look, his mannerisms, the way he spoke. There was no intense 'do you remember me?' moment.

Danny, tense, nervous and self-conscious at first, gradually relaxed to the extent that he actually fell asleep, head lolling to the side against the back of his armchair.

Steve spotted it first then gestured to Chin, pointing at Danny.

Chin turned instantly, finally able to take in Danny's lean, scarred face, to look at him properly without making him feel like he was being scrutinized. A long moment later he turned back to Steve, gave him an appraising look too.

Steve knew he was pale. He'd lost weight. His symptoms were now being managed pretty successfully thanks to the medication, but he still looked and felt unwell.

But, for whatever reason, Chin seemed to approve of what he saw. He said nothing, but put a hand on Steve's shoulder and squeezed.

Steve let out a shaky breath, beyond touched because words weren't needed. They both understood the horror of what had happened to Danny. They shared the confused feelings of loss and relief at having him back in this altered way, as well as fears about the uphill journey he still had to face as he re-learned… virtually _everything_. How to talk, how to walk, how to take care of himself. How to live with what had happened to him.

"Thank you for coming in and thank you for making it so easy on him," Steve whispered.

"You're welcome," replied Chin with a respectful nod. "By the way, Kono wants to come next. I promised under pain of death that I'd put in a word."

They smiled at each other for a moment, then Steve's smile fell away as he remembered how things really were between them now. But everything was changing because Danny was back. He had to try to make amends somehow, try to right that monumental wrong, if it was even possible. He drew a deep breath. "Listen, Chin. I'm sorry. I know I've been pushing you all away since Danny went. I've had some… problems. I need you to know I'm working on it. I'm gonna have to take some time off work to… to sort myself out. I need to for Danny anyway, so I figure I might as well kill two birds with one stone." He smiled again, fleeting and nervous, and his expressions were echoed by Chin.

Chin asked no questions. He already knew. Steve had been hiding nothing from them- he had been deluding himself. Steve looked down at his hands. "I'm so sorry, I really am. I owe a whole lot of apologies in fact. I've been… difficult. But you guys… _and_ Joe, you've... I'm just…" He trailed off. There was too much to say and nothing would be enough.

Chin shook his head. "Steve, I think you'll find the people you surrounded yourself with are more forgiving and understanding than you realize. You didn't choose us as friends for nothing. If you need anything, anything at all, you only have to ask." He smiled softly, looked at him meaningfully. "It's good to have you _both_ back."

….

Answers come to you when you least expect them.

Two more days had gone by. Danny was sitting, arms around his knees, listening in silence to Steve who was working slowly through the information Chin had brought in. Danny had just finished his latest physio session. The gentle, repetitive exercises had exhausted him and his eyelids were drooping, but he had stubbornly refused to go back to his bed. That little glimpse of attitude had made Steve smile to himself.

Steve, slumped back in the second chair, his own head a little fuzzy, his eyes a little glazed, was reading sections of the paperwork out loud. Part of him was hoping to find a new angle that the team had missed, for all that seemed unlikely. The rest of him was trying to bore Danny towards much-needed sleep. They could _both_ use a nap.

The team were sticking with the theory that Danny had been smuggled off Oahu _fast_. If he'd been held for a while before his removal to Colombia, there would surely have been whispers. No, there had to have been minimal people involved and it had to have happened quickly. Unless he'd been sent by a very roundabout route, that container ship still seemed to be the likely answer. Joe had sent Chin names and photos of the five deceased Colombian men so the team could try to establish if any of them had set foot on Oahu in person, or had traceable links with that ship. The results were negative so far. The involvement of a third party seemed the most likely explanation.

The skeletal crew of the ship had been less than helpful. They had each sworn blind that Danny hadn't been in the ship's accommodation, that they had seen no sign of him at all. Assuming that was true, that left the containers. There had been literally hundreds on board, holding goods belonging to literally hundreds of people. Identifying the one person responsible would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. It could easily be that someone had simply broken into a container they had no legitimate access to for the purpose. There might be no trail left back to them at all. But they had to try.

Lou, Kono and Chin were in the process of chasing up every single name connected in any way with that freaking ship in person, ruffling feathers as they went.

It all seemed so strange to Danny, all of these people caring so much about what had happened to him. He wished he could help them, wished he could access those dark recesses in his mind.

Steve, voice monotone, was reading out a list of names; the people and companies that had containers booked to transport goods on the ship.

"….D. Akanu, F. Alana, Aloha Vans, American Automobiles, K Bailey, Blue Horizon Software, J Buchanan…" Steve trailed off. "J Buchanan. Why does that sound so familiar?" He put down the list, moved to another pile of papers. "Jimmy Buchanan, Buchanan Import-Export, Waikiki. I know that name. Have we dealt with him before?" He frowned, knowing Chin's checks would have shown up any previous dealings. He rubbed the back of his hand across his bleary eyes, then began to flick through the index of cross-referenced enquiries, biting his lip in concentration. Nothing.

Then Steve snorted, shook his head slowly. "Okay, I am an idiot. It's been too long since school, Danno. Of course he sounds familiar. James Buchanan, 15th President of the United States of America. I'm so off the ball it's not even funny." The words rolled off his tongue before he'd even thought about them, before he'd even realized what he'd said. _Fifteenth_. He froze, looked over at Danny.

Danny was looking at him with wide eyes and a face frozen in shock.

Steve shook his head. "No, Danny, that's not it…. that can't be it. Can it? That's… _ridiculous_. Isn't it?" He laughed a short, sharp, nervous laugh.

Danny didn't even twitch. He started to breathe harder.

"Surely not, buddy." Steve breathed, uncertain now. "That's not what you were trying to make yourself remember… is it?"

Danny wasn't sure, not at all, but when he heard that name his heart started to pound, his palms started to sweat. He began to count out of habit, but when he hit 15 for the first time he stopped dead. He _didn't_ remember what it meant, but all of a sudden he could _vividly_ recall trying to _make_ himself remember that number. Saying it over and over and over again, trying to make it stick in his mind while he was inside a black, black box and the trunk of a car and that stinking prison cell packed full of nightmares. He remembered the terrifying sensation of his mind just not _working_ and everything slipping away. He remembered slicing his hand, over and over and over again, on that sharp edge of metal on the cell door so he _couldn't_ forget, so desperate to hold onto that fact, his one last act of defiance.

He looked at Steve helplessly, because he _didn't_ remember, not really… but it felt so right. It _had_ to be.

Steve walked over to him, crouched in front of him and took hold of his hand in an effort to make communication as easy for Danny as he possibly could. "Buddy, was it James Buchanan who took you and put you on that ship? Do you think that was what you were trying to make yourself remember?"

Danny hesitated for so long Steve actually shook his partner's hand, desperate for an answer.

One squeeze. _One squeeze._

Steve stared long and hard at Danny's shocked face, then he simply couldn't help himself. He dropped Danny's hand, grabbed him by the nape of the neck and pulled him into a hard embrace. "I swear, Danno," his whispered into his partner's ear, voice shaking with emotion, "only you could come up with something that fucking oblique. I would never, _never,_ have guessed that. You did good. You held on to that… _shit_ , you did well, buddy! A cop to the last, right?"

Steve paused for a second and the atmosphere changed. "We'll get him now. He's gonna pay for this."

Danny was panting, shaken to the very core at having accessed something almost approaching a memory from _before_. He wasn't really listening but he heard Steve's tone change, felt the muscles bunch in his arms. Steve had always been quiet and calm with him. Maybe emotional but never angry. This was something new and dangerous. It stirred something deep within him. It scared him. But he realized he wasn't scared _of_ Steve, he was scared _for_ him. Strange, disjointed images came to him; Steve throwing himself off a balcony, Steve taking off his vest and walking towards a man with a gun. Steve taking _stupid_ risks no one in their right mind would take.

He grabbed at the front of Steve's shirt and held on tight, fear now joined by annoyance, because how could Steve play with his own life like that when he meant everything to Danny? He couldn't lose Steve, he couldn't let Steve do something stupid... and what the hell was Steve even _thinking_ doing that kind of thing?! What kind of civilized human being would even behave like that?!

Danny shook his head, hard, and then the word came out without him even knowing it was going to.

"A-animal."

TBC

 ***Hoʻomanaʻo- to remember**

 **Please let me know what you thought!**


	9. Fifteen

**Apologies, running late thanks to kids' social activities. Blighters. Anyhoo...**

 **Genuinely overwhelmed at the support this has received, you are all fantastic.**

 **Thanks to sue2556 and KQ for making sure I didn't entirely forget about long-term problems associated with alcoholism. And re-iterated thanks to IC and ECT for their support and comments. Remember to read ECT's 'A Case of Mistaken Identity'. Same general concept as this but a million times more poetic!**

 **Okay. This is it. The end (don't hit me- it was always going to end like this!).**

CHAPTER 9- FIFTEEN

For what felt like the thousandth time in the twelve days since the partners had been reunited, Steve watched Danny as he slept, but this time was entirely different. This time gazing at that thin, scarred face didn't fill Steve with sick horror or trepidation or self-recrimination. This time his head was swimming with pride and astonishment and hope because Danny had begun to _remember_. Danny had remembered enough for to work out the significance of the number fifteen. Enough for him to remember he thought Steve was crazy, which was just so damn... Danny of him. That was it, nothing else... but it just meant so much. Danny's memories had _not_ been entirely erased. At least some of them were still in there somewhere. More of _him_ was in there somewhere.

The sense of sadness and loss that had continued to grip Steve despite having his partner back had virtually evaporated. It was premature, perhaps, but Steve simply couldn't stop the broad, goofy smile that kept creeping onto his face.

Steve ghosted his fingers along Danny's fifteen scars. One day, when all of this was as far behind them as it could possibly get, he would ask Danny all about them, find out how much he could remember. He wanted to know when it had first occurred to Danny to use the number as shorthand to remember Buchanan's name. He wanted to know where he'd been when he'd cut himself, how he'd done it.

Steve wanted to know every last detail because those scars and that number had now become as important to him as they ever were to Danny. Maybe more.

And the number fifteen just seemed to keep cropping up after that. Okay, it was a contrived idea in Steve's mind, really, and he recognized that without a shadow of a self-delusion, but he didn't care. He _looked_ for it.

 _Fifteen hours_

That was the first time Steve noticed it. Because it took 15 hours from the moment Steve phoned in the intel about James Buchanan for Chin, Kono, Lou and HPD to track down the man down, tear apart his whole miserable world and then finally book him for assaulting and abducting Danny.

Steve would have loved to be there, would have loved to see the man's face (and punch it repeatedly, more importantly), but clearly that was not possible. He wasn't well enough and he couldn't leave Danny. Plus he had another important task to carry out. Immediately after he called Chin with the information, he took a deep breath, stuck out his jaw and phoned the governor to explain that he needed an extended leave of absence to assist Danny and deal with his own alcoholism. The governor sounded… pleased. Steve started to wonder if he himself was the only person who hadn't suspected he had a problem.

Chin came in when the Buchanan thing was all done and dusted to tell them what had happened and what he had found out. He and Steve kept a careful eye on Danny as the story unfolded, as Danny learned of the events that had led up to his two years in Colombia. Danny just listened in silence, filed it all away.

Buchanan had broken in interview, spilled everything.

It had emerged that he had taken Danny from outside his house as he was heading out to the Camaro that dark night, two years earlier. Buchanan had hit him over the head from behind with a tire iron, knocked him clean out. Danny had never even seen him coming. Buchanan had loaded him in his car and driven away. He had employed a 'friend', smart and forensically aware (and shortly to follow Buchanan to Halawa), to move the Camaro and ensure the crime scene was left clean.

Danny had been secreted into a container that Buchanan had booked weeks earlier for an superficially legitimate purpose.

Buchanan admitted Danny had been conscious again by the time he had been thrown unceremoniously into the container. He had given Danny a message to pass on to the people who were to meet him at the other end of his voyage. That message; Danny was 'a gift from James Buchanan'. Buchanan had then slammed the doors shut and sent Danny on his journey in the darkness with minimal provisions, a sleeping bag and a bucket.

Steve shuddered at the thought of what that trip must have done to his claustrophobic partner. And he knew for a fact that Danny would have done _anything_ to hold onto the memory of that name, the name of the man who had started all this. Steve got it.

And Buchanan's motivation? He had wanted to ingratiate himself to the cartel Marco Reyes had been a part of. He wanted to be their next big contact in Hawaii. But the 'gift' was completely unsolicited and had met with a lukewarm reception. The powers that be in the cartel weren't really interested in what had happened to Reyes. Things had moved on in their internal politics.

However, they had accepted the gift of an American cop for pure entertainment and rewarded Buchanan by not having the hapless man killed for his impertinence.

Danny Williams had been taken and broken for precisely nothing.

 _15 days_

That was the next big one. _Exactly_ fifteen days on, to the hour, from the moment Steve had first sat beside Danny in that tiny hospital in Colombia, Danny asked him in a less-than-certain voice if he could maybe meet his kids. He still didn't remember them, but he was starting to wish he did.

Steve agreed, suggesting Grace should come alone at first. Charlie was still only six. It would be difficult and unfair to try to school him in how to act to avoid potential upset on both sides. He would have to wait a little longer.

As with previous visitors, Steve coached Danny before the appointed time. He showed Danny photos, told him endless facts about the pretty teenager who was once the center of his world.

"She calls you Danno," Steve said with a smile as they waited for her together.

Danny frowned. " _You_ call me Danno." His speech was coming on nicely, short, simple sentences flowing more easily.

Steve snorted at that. "Yeah. I kind of copied her. It's a term of endearment," he clarified.

Danny seemed to accept that. He was fast becoming accustomed to Steve's surreal brand of humor. "What did I call her?" he asked quietly.

Steve's lips formed the 'M' of 'Monkey', but then Grace was right there in the doorway of the room and Steve choked, emotion overwhelming him. He couldn't say it.

Grace glanced at Steve, her look telling him she has remembered everything he had asked her to do… but her need to rush to her father after so long was palpable. She looked over at him, taking in his lean face, his short hair, the long scar on his cheek.

"Danno," she said quietly, then trailed off, her resolve uncertain.

Steve held his breath.

She visibly steeled herself. "Danno, hi. I'm Grace." Her greeting was simple and perfect. Her lips trembled as she forced a pretty smile.

And Danny still _didn't_ remember her, no matter how much he wanted to. However, although his memories had gone, much of what had made him Danny to begin with ran so much deeper than that. He saw a child in distress because she missed her father and his instincts kicked in. After a moment's hesitation, he held out his arms to her with a soft smile.

She ran at him, tears flowing, perched awkwardly on the bed and then wrapped her arms around him and buried her face against his chest.

Slowly, slowly, Danny put his arms around her, looking over at Steve with apprehension. But then he enveloped her in a fierce embrace. He held her tight, tucked her head in close to his, inhaling deeply against her hair.

"Monkey," he whispered.

 _15 weeks_

Steve knew this one was coming because the day had been marked on his kitchen calendar for long enough to give him plenty of time to count back the weeks, then grin with smug satisfaction when the numbers worked out perfectly. And, okay, maybe fortuity had less to do with this one, because maybe he had chosen the exact day himself. So what if he had?

Exactly fifteen weeks after the partners' initial reunion, Steve finally felt ready, physically _and_ mentally, to begin to go back to work part-time.

Perhaps co-incidentally (but probably not) it took the same fifteen weeks for Danny to reach a point where _he_ felt strong enough, confident enough and able to cope sufficiently well with day-to-day tasks for Steve to be able to leave him on his own for a few hours without needing to arrange for what Danny had grumpily referred to as a 'another damn babysitter'. Not that Chin, or Kono, or Lou, or Danny's parents, or _any_ of the people who had devoted their own time to helping the recovering partners out through the preceding weeks would have objected to 'babysitting'. But Danny didn't _need_ it anymore- that was the big thing.

The first fifteen weeks had undoubtedly been the hardest for them both, but especially for Danny. Things had got worse before they got better.

Danny had been discharged after three weeks at Tripler, inevitably lodging with Steve in the interim while he still needed so much support. His memories of his life before he was taken had continued to emerge in an unpredictable, disjointed fashion, but for the most part they were akin to distant dreams- vague and intangible. He remembered much more of the detail of his traumatic captivity than of his previous life. That was the essence of the problem. As he became stronger and remembered more, he gained more perspective on what had happened to him and the horrors that he had accepted to an extent at the time seemed so much worse. He struggled to come to terms his ordeal and his PTSD worsened in many ways.

Nightmares and flashbacks plagued him, challenging his recovery just a little more than was fair. He woke Steve every night for weeks when he cried out in his sleep, he zoned in and out when he got stressed and his temper seemingly had a mind of its own.

Steve listened patiently when Danny wanted to talk about things that had happened to him He offered quiet comfort even as he mentally tore the (thankfully deceased) perpetrators of the crimes limb from limb over and over and over again. Sometimes Steve was a shoulder to cry on, sometimes he was someone for Danny to vent his frustrations towards. Steve was fine with all of that. He still remembered the Danny he had first seen in Colombia all too vividly. Crying Danny and yelling Danny were so, so much better than that.

Gradually, counselling, medication and Steve's unyielding support, coupled with the classic, stubborn, Jersey determination that ran through Danny like blood, saw Danny finding ways to cope.

His confidence grew slowly, along with his re-awakening Danny attitude.

The people he had known before- he maybe didn't remember them properly, but there was a familiarity, an easiness, which made starting a friendship anew the easiest thing in the world. Steve stayed by his side, he and Danny both rediscovering their links with the friends and family they had before it all went so wrong.

Danny also became curious about himself. What had made him tick before, the ways in which he had changed… the whole nature versus nurture thing. Steve noticed him dropping subtle questions into the conversations he had with other people. He waited for his turn. He agonized over telling Danny about those fundamental, life-altering moments he had confided in Steve about through the years, and about the moments they had suffered through together. Matt, Dave Collins, Meka, Grace Tilwell, Rick Peterson, Billy Selway. The list went on and on because life had _never_ been fair to Danny Williams. He had been traumatized for as long as Steve had known him. He just used to have a lifetime of learned bluster to cover it up with.

Steve hated to tell him, really, but those weren't his secrets to keep. When Danny asked, Steve told.

And as for Steve… ? He hadn't touched alcohol since Colombia and he was determined he never would again. He still had his ups and downs. Low moods and lethargy relating to alcohol withdrawal still hit him when he least expected it weeks after he had stopped, but he recognized those lows for what they were and ruthlessly used Danny's needs to force himself to keep going, to pick himself back up.

Maybe the additional stress of having someone to take care of while he himself was trying to recover might have seemed hugely counter-productive to some, but not Steve. Danny's intense loyalty and unconditional love and support, coupled with his dependence on Steve for help, meant everything. To Steve it provided all the motivation he needed to stay sober.

He came clean to Danny about the whole alcohol thing one evening. Steve knew if he so much as suggested as sharing a couple of lite beers now, Danny would kick his ass.

As the weeks passed the two friends slowly healed. Danny filled out, muscled up and seemed more like… Danny. But when it all got too much Steve would still hold Danny's hand, rub his scars and they would count together. 'Meditation for dummies', Danny came to call it as he became self-conscious about the habit.

Steve would just smile at that, ignore him and keep on counting, head bowed. Counting those fifteen scars meant as much to Steve as it did to Danny. They weren't just the clue that had lead them to Buchanan- their very existence reflected Danny's presence of mind, his intelligence, his tenacity, his determination that justice should prevail in the very worst of circumstances. They were a reminder of who Danny had been and who he was gradually becoming again. Even after their meaning had been lost to Danny they had still provided his one source of comfort when he was in hell. They had kept him safe in a way… and then, when he really _was_ safe, they had gifted Steve the means to draw Danny back. Steve had had no understanding whatsoever of what he was doing when he had started to count to fifteen with Danny, over and over and over again, but if that had never happened, if the number and the scars hadn't been there at all… Danny could have been lost to them forever.

Steve couldn't help but think that in many ways the number fifteen had saved Danny, and, in a roundabout fashion, it had saved him too.

 _15 months_

Steve smiled proudly, glancing surreptitiously to his right.

Because it had taken 15 months, give or take, to reach this day, this marvelous morning when Danny started work full-time at Five-0 again. As it turned out it didn't matter so much that he had never regained all his memories. Danny had changed in many ways, but in many more he was still the same. His personality was still… Danny. He was still stubborn and loud and infuriating, loyal and intelligent and determined.

Steve could have just re-hired him, no questions asked, let him re-learn the facts he had lost on the job. Immunity and means had so many benefits. But Danny wouldn't have that. Danny didn't want the easy way. Danny wanted to stand on his own two feet again for real. He went back to the Police Academy and started from scratch.

Now Danny, newly re-trained and on his first day on the job for all intents and purposes, was standing with his hands on his hips, looking at Steve like he'd just grown a third head.

"What?" said Steve.

"What the hell are you doing?" Danny replied, gesticulating wildly.

"Watch and learn, rookie," Steve grunted with a grin, adjusting his grip on the suspect's ankles.

Danny glared at him like he was clinically insane. "Watch and learn?! What the hell is the matter with you, you-you Neanderthal! I might be a rookie but I'll bet I've read the official police procedure manual one hell of a lot more recently than you, if indeed you have EVER read it, and, let me assure you, my friend, hanging a man off a roof is _not_ an approved interview technique!" He waved his hands in the air as he yelled, irate.

Steve's smile got impossibly wider. He wondered idly what would be happening to them in fifteen years' time.

THE END

 **Yeah, the end, but I had way too much fun writing this and I have a stash of recovery scenes that didn't quite fit in (although they still happened in my head!). I might add the more presentable ones after this as an 'outtakes' chapter if there's any interest.**

 **Please let me know what you thought… and if you would like that little bit more.**

 **Swifters**


	10. Deleted scenes

**I've been totally blown away by the support and reviews this story got. You are all wonderful and I have appreciated every single bit of feedback. Thank you!**

 **Thanks IC for the hyper-speed beta- turnaround in like 10 minutes! Go girl!**

 **MARCH 2016... OK, I added a couple of new ones to this... I never can stop fiddling with my stories! Still in chronological order.**

 **WARNING- the third outtake (a new one) features a description of sexual assault that I don't consider to be overly graphic but others may disagree- do not read if you may be bothered by that kind of thing.**

FIFTEEN- DELETED SCENES

 _Pizza_

Steve sat a short distance from the others, deliberately giving Danny space to interact with the other members of the team on his own. He watched.

Danny's circle of trust was growing slowly. He was still shy, still hesitant to speak with anyone but Steve, but he listened attentively to the banter that now criss-crossed the hospital room and occasionally made eye contact with Chin, or Kono, or Lou. Occasionally he even smiled. It was all good.

The team had brought in pizza from the place that had been the only restaurant on Oahu ever to earn Danny's begrudging approval back in the day. The stack of pies they'd produced would no doubt feed most of the staff on the ward let alone the newly-reunited Five-0 team. Without doubt, Steve loved his team.

He watched as Danny reached hesitantly for a slice.

Steve had to look at the ground, fast. It was stupid. Really, really stupid. It just shouldn't matter at all, it shouldn't matter that Danny had reached for the ham and pineapple. In the big scheme of things it just meant nothing.

But somehow it really did matter. It just served to highlight how different Danny was, how much of himself he'd forgotten, as if it needed to be highlighted at all.

Steve looked over to the window, trying to distract himself because pizza toppings were _not_ a valid subject for him to have a public display of emotion about.

A tactical clearing of a throat had him glancing back round. It was Kono. She was grinning at Steve and pointing discretely at Danny. Steve followed her finger. And he couldn't help but smile, then laugh, as he saw Danny's expression of absolute disgust.

Lou handed Danny a napkin to spit into. "Buddy, you ain't never liked that shit and I'm right with you there. Some things just don't change."

...

 _The Beach_

Steve cast his eyes up the stairs. Danny had been a while in the bathroom and he was getting worried. His partner had seemed out of sorts all morning. The previous evening, Grace had brought him round a pile of photos taken during a father/daughter day on the beach they had had a few years back. Grace had suggested maybe she, Charlie, Danny and Steve could hang out on Steve's beach at the weekend.

Danny had quietly agreed but, after his daughter had left, he had spent a lot of time staring at a picture of a slightly younger Grace sitting on his shoulders as he stood in the shallows of the turquoise sea. Both were smiling broadly. It was a great picture.

Steve pushed out a slow breath. Danny had only been released from Tripler a few days earlier and Steve was still feeling his way with how much space to give him now they had so much more… well, space. Danny didn't need watching over constantly, but when he needed support he was shy in asking for it.

"Fuck it."

There was no point standing there, worrying. Steve started up the stairs.

The door to the bathroom was ajar. Steve hesitated, almost knocked, but then changed his mind and peered through the door. Danny had taken off his shirt. He was standing, staring at his own torso, a finger hesitantly tracing some of his scars.

So that was it. That was the problem. He'd seen a photo of himself _before._ Muscular, tanned and healthy, scars few, far between and neatly healed.

Not now.

Steve watched as Danny turned his shoulders, trying to see his own back.

Suddenly realizing he was intruding, Steve took a step away from the door, but Danny caught sight of him in the mirror and turned around sharply before he could move out of sight.

Steve smiled at him cautiously. "You okay?" It seemed a safe enough thing to ask.

Danny stared at him, then shook his head slowly. "Can't see," he said, voice quiet.

Steve blinked a few times. The subject of Danny's scars made him uncomfortable because they hid nothing, told virtually everything. They were a constant reminder of everything that had happened. But they were part of his friend now, they were something he needed to face up to as much as Danny did. Steve took a deep breath. "Want a hand?"

Danny nodded.

"Want me to take a picture? Might be the easiest way," Steve suggested.

Danny nodded for a second time, then turned and presented his back to Steve.

Steve tried not to react because he knew Danny was watching in the mirror again and he already knew what was there anyway. He knew every scar by heart. In his darker moments he had imagined how each one had come to be, imagined Danny, terrified and desperate, crying out in pain as they tortured him without reason or mercy. Had he been waiting for Steve to rescue him? Or had he known no one was coming? Steve bit his lip, eyes lingering on the clear teeth marks forever branded in silver skin on his partner's shoulders. He hated those scars the most.

Steve shook himself, pulled out his cell and took a photo, then handed the thing to Danny.

He watched as Danny studied it, face a blank mask.

Danny looked up at him finally and shook his head, his face suddenly taut with emotion. "Don't want to scare my kids," he croaked. A single tear ran down his cheek.

Steve stepped forward, pulled the cell out of Danny's hand and wrapped his arms around him. Danny was shaking, head to foot. And Steve didn't know what to say, because Danny was right. If the scars could freak Steve out when he let himself think about them, God only knew how the kids might react. Of course everyone had protected them from knowing the details of what had been done to their father. That was a necessity. But the notion of verbally agreeing with Danny that the sight of his body would actually scare his children was heart-breaking.

Steve huffed out a long breath. "It's okay. You can wear a shirt. I'll wear one too so you're not the only one. Okay?"

Danny nodded against his shoulder and whispered his thanks.

Steve kept ahold of his partner and pretended not to notice how wet the fabric of his shirt was getting.

 _..._

 _Nightmare (WARNING- a_ _graphic one)_

"No… please… no." The plea was ground out quietly, without hope, because these men knew no mercy. He already knew they wouldn't stop. He couldn't even move. He was tied tight but, even if he hadn't been, whatever they'd drugged him with made his limbs limp and sluggish, made even attempting to fight impossible. He wished it would just knock him out completely, wished he didn't have to be there in mind, wished he didn't have to _feel_ every last thing.

The initial shock of being raped was still fresh in his mind. The sudden intrusion, the inescapable pain, the _humiliation_ , the denial even in the face of it all. The sounds; the pleasured grunts, the cat calls as they spurred each other on _._ The smell of blood, of sweat, of semen.

The shock was still there this time around, but he was torn and swollen now so it hurt even more than it had the first time. He screwed up his eyes, tried to retreat into his mind as he lay there, bound to the table face-down as they used him like he meant _nothing._ He tried to blank it all out, tried to concentrate on remembering the bastard who had sent him here, the bastard who Steve was going to destroy when he learned what he had done. _James Buchanan._ _Fifteenth president. Fifteenth. Fifteenth._ He wouldn't let himself think about anything else. He couldn't think about Gracie, or Charlie, or Steve, or _anyone_ he cared about. He couldn't sully his memories of the people he loved with _this_ , with the things that were happening to him, so he tucked them away, far below the surface, safe. _Fifteenth. Fifteenth._

A sharp slap to his face brought him back to reality. One of them was kneeling in front of him, grinning at him. He held a knife up to Danny's face and Danny tried to twist away, but then there was a hand in his hair, twisting it painfully and there was no escape. The tip of the knife was pushed into his skin, just above his cheekbone.

The man grunting behind him was nearly done but Danny knew already that wouldn't be the end. It wouldn't be over. Another one of them would take his place. Danny sobbed. He couldn't help it. He hoped to fuck Steve was on his way, that the team had worked out what had happened to him. He hoped to fuck it would be over soon. Although he also hoped to fuck they wouldn't see him like this when they arrived. _Fifteenth. Fifteenth._ He started to count up to that magic number, over and over and over again, just like he had done day after day in the pitch black container.

The knife pressed harder. The hard thrusts now pushed his face repeatedly into the tip of that knife, refocusing him on the horrors of the here-and-now yet again. The smile in front of him ever broadened in response. Without warning, the knife slashed downwards. It was blunt and tore a ragged line of white hot agony down his cheek. He cried out. He could feel hot blood sheeting down his face. Fingers dug into his hips, teeth into his shoulders and it all _hurt_ , it hurt so fucking much. A single tear escaped as his helpless desperation peaked.

A strong hand gripped his shoulder. Words were being spoken in his ear. He tried not to listen, he didn't want to hear any more of their poison, their perversion…. But the voice persisted. Words began to filter through his barriers.

"You're okay. You're okay. It's just a dream. You're safe. It's over. Come on, come back to me buddy."

Danny, breathing hard and shaking from head to foot, cracked his eyes open in disbelief. He moved his arms reflexively and he wasn't tied face down, he wasn't tied at all. He looked up.

Steve was right there, eyes wide with concern, gripping his shoulder and stroking his scarred cheek.

Fuck. _Fuck._ The terror and the horror and the remembered pain rose up to strangle him and he couldn't breathe past the lump in his throat. He choked out a couple of ragged breaths, then he broke.

Steve gathered him up and held him close as he wept. One big hand on the back of Danny's head pressed his hot, wet face firmly to Steve's broad chest as his friend's familiar voice whispered numbers in his ear.

…..

They sat together after, both leaning against the headboard of Danny's bed. Danny's breath still hitched reflexively. Steve stroked his scarred thumb, still trying to sooth, to support.

Steve gave him a sideways glance. "Bad one." It was a statement, not a question.

Danny nodded, mute.

"Want to tell me about it?"

A shake of the head this time.

Steve nodded curtly, because that was _always_ Danny's response when this happened… and it happened virtually every night and often more than once. Danny simply didn't want to talk about his nightmares, about whatever memories he might still have of those dark, dark months, about _any_ of it. Steve had never pushed him, not once. But Danny _had_ to talk about it sooner or later. He _had to_.

Steve knew for a fact his partner had only spoken in the most general terms to his therapist, because Steve still went to the sessions with him at Danny's own request. Danny's standing excuse… he didn't remember the details of what had happened to him. But Steve knew for a fact that was only partially true. Danny was hiding behind his amnesia. So many things had changed, but Steve could still tell a mile off when his friend was lying.

Steve bit his lip. Decision made, he hazarded another glance before speaking. "Well… tell me anyway." His voice was quiet but firm and brokered no argument.

Danny turned and stared at him wordlessly. It was hard to read his expression.

Steve cleared his throat, took a deep breath. "I just… I think it's doing you no good keeping it inside the way you are. And… okay, I need to know. I want to understand. I need… I just need to know, okay? I know… I already know it's bad. You don't have to protect me if that's what you're doing…. Let me in, buddy. Please." He snorted in disgust at his own inadequate explanation.

Danny blinked a couple of times then looked away. He was silent for long minutes after that, and Steve gave him that time, didn't push again.

Then Danny slumped down, head bowed. Quietly and hesitantly, he began to describe his nightmare in vivid, horrific detail.

As he listened, Steve realized he was trembling as much as Danny was. He'd known, of course, what Danny had been through, but hearing it described like this made it so painfully real. Steve's own cheeks became damp. It was blatantly clear why Danny hadn't wanted to describe the specifics of his ordeal to anyone. He _was_ trying to protect Steve, to protect himself, to just try to forget it had ever happened. But it _had_ happened. It was a reality Danny needed to face and Steve needed to understand to help him do just that.

Steve drew a shaky breath as Danny's words ground to a halt, as he reached the end of his little horror story. He squeezed Danny's hand tight and whispered, "Thank you for trusting me with that. I'm so sorry we didn't find you, Danno. I'm so, so sorry."

Danny was silent, but he leaned his head against Steve's shoulder and rested it there. Steve closed his eyes, somehow warmed by the simple gesture even as the familiar feelings of sickening guilt flooded through his system. There was nothing else he could say, nothing that could erase what had happened to Danny or lessen its impact.

Stalwart companionship and support were all he had to offer and he gave them unreservedly.

He prayed it would be enough.

...

 _The dark place_.

Danny had gone to bed early. He had muttered some excuse the moment they had come in the front door and scurried up to Steve's spare room which, somewhere along the way, had become Danny's room. Steve's home had become Danny's home.

Steve listened at the door now. He could hear Danny counting quietly and itched to go in to help him with his demons. But the door was closed. That meant Danny wanted to be alone and Danny's right to choose was sacrosanct. Steve laid his palm against the wooden barrier between them and closed his eyes. This was his fault.

Steve knew what was wrong and he was to blame. He had failed to recognize the trigger before it was too late. Worse, he had failed to usher Danny straight out of the restaurant when he _had_ realized his partner was quietly struggling. He had mistakenly thought the less fuss the better. He'd casually finished his juice, claimed tiredness, thrown a few notes on the table and bid a cheery farewell to the rest of the team before pulling Danny to his feet, slinging an arm over his shoulders and leading him out.

He should have just dropped everything and gotten them the hell out of there the instant he had seen the fear appear in Danny's eyes.

When they had gotten out into the parking lot Steve had stopped and turned to ask Danny how he was doing. Danny had neither replied nor met his eyes. His heart had sunk when he realized how deeply Danny had been shaken by the rowdy group of men who'd been seated beside them. They had meant no harm but they had been loud, drunk and playfully argumentative. It was good-natured but it sounded superficially aggressive and it had clearly transported Danny somewhere entirely less pleasant in his mind.

Physically restraining himself from reaching for the door handle, Steve turned slowly and went downstairs instead. It was nearly dark. He had to have been standing outside Danny's door for a lot longer than he had realized. He reached for the remote, put the TV on and flicked to an infomercial channel. It used to help Danny blank out whatever was going on in his head once upon a time. Steve figured he might as well try it.

But the TV didn't help him any more than it had ever really helped Danny because there was no escaping the dark cycling of his own mind. He had failed Danny. Sent him back to the prison cell he had been kept in all those months, the cell he had told Steve all about, quietly and hesitantly. The place where all the bad things happened. He had let Danny down just as he'd let him down by failing to rescue him.

Steve's thoughts drew him inexorably downwards into a dark pit of self-loathing, suffocating and cold.

He put his head in his hands. It was stupid. It was the drink still doing this to him and he knew it. It was dragging down his mood, the withdrawal messing with the chemicals in his brain because Danny had ups and downs every single day and Steve could usually handle it. This should be no different. It was Steve's job to be there for him, be his rock, his point of stability, to give Danny something to grab onto when he needed it, and to stand by at a respectful distance when Danny wanted to handle it on his own.

Letting his own body chemistry get in the way of that responsibility was not acceptable.

His mind disagreed, providing him with a speculative image of Danny, thin and beaten, cowering in his cell as drunk men leered over him, knowing full well what would happen to him next. He was the entertainment, the play-thing. Their possession.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut tighter still, a tiny whine of distress escaping his lips. If there had been drink in the house he might have been tempted.

Danny appeared so silently Steve didn't even realize he was there until he felt the sofa dip beside him, then felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

Steve sat up straight, fast, tried to conceal his personal spiral. He tried to plaster on his strong face so he could turn to Danny, see how his partner was really doing, work out what he needed. He couldn't. He had caused Danny to have a setback and he hated himself for it. He shook his head slowly, sagged in defeat. "Danny, I'm so sorry. I fucked up. I should have realized right away when those men started…"

Danny cut him dead. "Shut up. I'm good. I just needed some time to straighten my head out again is all. Same as you do. None of this is your fault, you hear me? You've done everything you possibly could to help me right from the moment that bastard Buchanan did what he did. Stop with the guilt thing. I _mean_ it. Come here, huh?"

Steve stared at him. He didn't move, but he didn't fight it when Danny pulled him around to face him, when Danny knelt up on the sofa and wrapped his arms around Steve's shoulders then held him close, tucking Steve's face into his chest.

"We're gonna be fine." Danny whispered.

 _..._

 _The workout (AKA Sandcastles)_

"Hey buddy!" Steve called as he walked back into the house after his swim, rubbing his hair with a towel. "You hungry? I could eat a horse."

There was no response. Steve stopped to listen and heard the unmistakable sound of weights clunking. Danny was working out in the office. Steve had bought a pile of gym equipment and stuck it in there to help Danny in his self-appointed mission to get back in shape. He was increasingly conscious of the body mass he had lost thanks to the way his wardrobe hung off him and his over-careful study of the old beach photos Grace had brought him a while back.

Still rubbing at his hair, Steve wandered through and stuck his head round the door. Danny was on the weight bench. Steve could hear him counting out his sets under his breath… sets of fifteen, of course, but what else would Danny do? He was pushing himself hard, glistening with sweat, face red, arms shaking with the effort.

"Danny? You nearly done?"

There was _still_ no response.

Steve frowned, then grimaced. Danny had had a counselling session that morning. They sometimes knocked the stuffing out of him, leaving him needing to sleep, shell-shocked and exhausted. It looked like he was channelling his stress in a different direction this time.

Steve backed off, giving him space and time to work through whatever was going on in his mind. He threw on a shirt, poured himself some fruit juice, went and sat on the Lanai. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and let himself relax. It felt like things were slowly, slowly clicking back into place. He felt so much better in himself, confident that he'd finally beaten his demon, and Danny was doing so well. He was sleeping better and learning how to cope with his flashbacks. His self-confidence was slowly returning. He would never be the same- how could he be? But he was okay. They should celebrate their progress really. Surf n'turf, fresh fruit smoothie. That should do it. His mouth started to water at the thought of it.

His pleasant thoughts were rudely interrupted by a loud clatter emanating from the office. Steve leapt to his feet and ran. "Danny?!"

He ran through the office door and stopped dead. The weights Danny had been using were on the ground… as was Danny. He was sitting on the floor, back to the wall, head in his hands.

"Hey. You okay?" Steve asked gently, walking over and crouching in front of him.

Then Danny was sobbing, hard.

"Shit! Hey, easy, Danno. I've got you. You're okay," said Steve, pulling him into a hug. "What's going on in that head, buddy? Talk to me."

Danny shook his head and Steve didn't push. He stroked his partner's trembling back, whispering numbers to him as he released his pent up frustrations and his grief.

The minutes ticked by, and then Danny was suddenly _trying_ to talk, pushing the words out between sobs, frantic and fast. His forehead was still pressed hard against Steve's shoulder, face hidden, his hands now clinging tight onto the front of Steve's shirt. "That damn therapist always wants me to talk about what happened, but I've had enough! The more I talk about it, the more I remember and I don't _want_ to remember more of that shit! I want to remember… m-my kids being born, and… and meeting you. And my brother! I don't have one single memory of my brother and I can never even change that, can I? And I keep tryin' and tryin' and driving myself crazy looking at freaking photos and… _nothing_! It's just not there!"

Steve closed his eyes, heart aching for his friend. He kept on rubbing Danny's back. "I'm sorry, buddy. I really am. The memories might come yet, you just need to be patient."

Danny shook his head. "It's just not fair! God, I sound like a kid."

"No, you're right, it's not fair. You don't deserve _any_ of this. But I can't help thinking you're trying too hard, buddy. Maybe if you just try to relax about it a bit. Maybe if you concentrate on making new good memories…" Steve cringed. That sounded cheesy to his own ears and he fully expected Danny to tell him to shut the hell up.

He didn't. He was quiet now, his labored breathing easing. He was listening.

Steve decided to risk going on. "Like yesterday. Making sandcastles with Charlie. That was good, right? And he doesn't care one bit that you don't remember him, he just loves you for spending time with him and having fun with him, right?"

"Yeah." Danny agreed, voice soft with affection for the boy.

"And going to the game last weekend with the team? That didn't suck?"

"I guess it didn't suck."

"So it's a start, right? Listen, I know things are hard for you, but having you back, Danny… Jesus it messed me up when we lost you. I don't want it to go to your head or anything but… getting you back has given me my life back. I'll spend the rest of my freaking life making sandcastles on the beach with you and Charlie if it makes things right for you."

There was no answer, but Steve felt Danny begin to relax a little in his arms. He was getting somewhere. "Course you need to work on it a bit. My sandcastles make your sandcastles look like… well, really sub-standard sandcastles. Inadequately defended at best."

A wet snort. Probably a laugh, though it was hard to tell. Humor. Humor was always good.

Steve ran a hand over Danny's bowed head. "But I can help you out with that; sandcastle construction. And other things too, like… like clothes! Like I keep telling you, you always used to have terrible taste in clothes. Your wardrobe was awful. I'll keep you right this time around."

Danny snorted again, the sound muffled by Steve's shirt. "Nice try," he mumbled, "for the last time, I'm not gonna wear cargo pants, Steven!"

Steve ducked his head and grinned against Danny's shoulder. "Can't blame a guy for trying."

 _..._

 _The graduation_

They were sitting together- all of Danny's friends and family, all watching the uniformed figures marching around the parade square, foot-perfect.

Steve searched the sea of smart figures for one special person, heart in his mouth, pulse racing. He had no idea why he was so damn nervous. Then Gracie was squealing, grabbing his arm and pointing. "There he is, Uncle Steve!"

And there he was indeed. Impeccably smart, upright, marching in perfect time with his fellow recruits (most of whom looked about the same age as Gracie). Danny Williams, newly qualified police officer.

Steve watched. Images of Danny over the last fourteen months and three weeks came to him, playing out like some kind of cheesy montage of the horrors, the frustrations and the triumphs. Danny, thin and catatonic, weak and terrified. Danny shaking with fear night after night as nightmares plagued him. Danny fighting tooth and nail to stand up on his own. His first steps, how he'd been sweating, shaking from head to foot. But fiercely determined as ever, he'd done it. He'd overcome every obstacle, learned to cope with everything that had happened. And now... now he was strong and fit, a cop again after all this time, his destiny repeating itself.

Steve bit his lip, realized it was trembling. He looked up at his partner again, and his eyes welled with pride. Fuck. People were looking at him.

Gracie took hold of his hand and squeezed. "It's okay, Uncle Steve. I'm proud of him too."

 **THE END!**

 **Hope you enjoyed those. Thank you all so much for reading, let me know what you thought. Feedback is fuel for FF writers- crazy but true! :)**


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